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Eleventh Thousand 

U'ebsdale, Shoosiiiith & Co., Printers, Sjdney. 

}'/3. 1 ^ .AjP r 




For sake of the meet and the muster, 

The hunts in the oak-scrub and plain ; 
For sake of the old days, whose lustre 

May never shine round us again ; 
In mind of the head-rope and halter, 

The mounts in the dawn and the dew, 
I lay my poor gift on the altar 

Of friendship, and pledge it to You ! 

W. H. 0. 


LIB SETSrAt-'5TP<*>viA:i 

0/ the following verges, "Life has wreaths of each 
hue," " Gold Tresses," " The Old Boat," " The World 
Beyond," " Brdlade of Windy Nights," and " To the 
Overlanders" are first printed in this volume. " The 
Land of Dumh Despair" was published as introductory 
to " Where the Dead Men Lie, and Other Poems" 
by Barcroft Boake. Most of the others originally 
appeared in The Bulletin, and some in The 
Australasian, The Sydney Mail, The Critic 
{Adelaide), The Western Champion and The 
Independent (Parkes, N.S. W.), The Border 
Watch {Mount Gambier, S.A.), The Australasian 
Pastoralists' Review, and The Kelso Mail 


Fair Girls and Gray horses ! A toast for you 
Who never u-ent ivide of a fence or a kiss : 

While horses are horses and eyes are blue 
There is never a toast in the u-orld like tliis! 

To all Fair Girls ! For the sake of one 

M'hose hriglit blue eyes ivere awhile my star, 
Whose hair had the rich red gold of the Sun 

When his kisses fall where the leaf lips are ! 
To all Fair Girls '. How the red wine gleams 

To the glass's rim as it gleamed that night 
In the jewelled hand of my Dame of Dreams — 

0, jeivelled fingers so soft and white .' 
To all Fair Girls ! Turn your glasses down. 

Ilere^s " Blissful bridals and long to live ! " 
And if I am sligliting your eyes of brown, 

Of Gipsies Bom of the Night, forgive ! 


To all Gray Horses ! Fill up ayain 

For the sake of a gray horse dear to me ; 
For a foam-fed bit and a snatching rein 

And a reaching galloper fast and free ! 
To all Oray Horses ! For one steed's sake 

Who has carried me many a journey tall 
In the daivn-mists dun when the magpies wake, 

In the starry haze when the night-dews fall ! 
To all Gray Horses ! Noiv drink you deep, 

For red wine ruins no rider's nerves : 
' Light work and a long, long after-sleep ! " 

As each gray horse in the world deserves. 

Fair Girls and Gray Horses ! To each his way, 
But golden and gray are the loves to hold ; 

And if gold tresses must turn to gray 

Gray horses need never he tamed into gold I 




The nodding plumes steal slowly by ; - 1 


the mountains speak of sadness ! - 3 

"POUR PASSER . . ." 

No sweep of hill or valley, . - . 6 


You stand at my knee, Gold Tresses ! - 8 


A spider floated a silken thread - - 10 


With laughter and love-spells and witch- 
eyes of blue - - - - - 12 




There were trailing roses behind her - 14 


" Perhaps to-night ! " came flashing 

through the splendour - - - 16 


You damn all ivomen as wantons nr worse 17 


The saddle-slaves of Love are we - - 19 


You have crossed my life with your fair 

sweet face ; ----- 22 


Hear me now ! for Time is flying, - • 24 


Now, money was scarce and work was 

slack ...... 26 


We have rowed together at even-fall - 29 




O, who was it saddled White Star last 

night, ..---- 31 


I have worked for you — toil made sweet, 

love ! ------ 33 


We played at love in Mulga town, - 35 


The Old Boat lies in the sand and slime 37 


How long shall we hear the sobbing 1 - 39 


There's a lonely grave half-hidden where 

the blue-grass droops above, - - 42 


Here on the broken strings of Love's 

mute harp, . - ... 45 


Store cattle from Nelanjie ! The mob 

goes feeding past, - • ' - - 49 




He was the Red Creek overseer, a trusted 

man and true, ----- 54 


O some prefer a single, - - - 61 


If ever you're handling a rough one - 63 


Dawn gilds the spiders' bridges ; - - 66 


Steady ! steady, my pearl ! from the crest 

of the range - - - - - 69 


There's a phantom-coach runs nightly 

along the Western creeks ; - - 72 


So I've taken his hundred notes in the 

end, 77 


They were boasting on the Greenhide of 

their nags of fancy breed, - - - 79 




On a little old bush x'acecourse at the 

back of No Man's Land, - - 84 


For K.G. or coronet, kingdom or crown, 87 


Twenty miles across the ranges there's a 

patch of cane-grass clears - - 91 


Lead me down to the stockyard, Jim, to 

the butt of the old box-tree ! - - 95 


The Banks are taking charge, old man ! — 

/ knew how it would be ; - - . 99 


Ho ! you in the boots and the long-necked 

spurs, 103 


He has toiled in his place since the break 

of day, 106 




He was born in the light of red oaths - 109 


The flood was down in the Wilga swamps, 

three feet over the mud, - - - 113 


When the gear is on the horses and the 

knotted trace-chains hooked ; - - 118 


Down the long dream-lanes - - - 123 


Long years ago — no matter now how long 

— one fierce December - - - 125 


A broken bridle trailing, - - - 135 


We are heathen who worship an idol - 137 


Eyes wild with fear unspoken, - - 139 




Come and look around my office — - - 142 


Down ! And the world's war-squadron 

splashes 151 


A Poet stood in the red day-dawn, - - 153 


There's a whisper from the regions out beyond 
the Barwon banks ; - - - - 155 


Grey-lying miles to the nor'ward of 

Nor' ward, - 158 


Where the mulga paddocks are wild and 

wide, 161 


Let others chant of battle and such 

wreaths as Glory gave ; - - - 164 


Here 18 roar iny flood in Winter - - 166 




West of the World all red suns sleep - 169 


If you chance to strike a gathering of 

half-a-dozen friends - - - - 1 70 


" Absent Friends ! " There are brought to 

our mind again - - - - - 174 


There's a whisper away on the Queens- 
land side 176 


Because we've waked the morning-stars - 1 80 


The Wind that fires the blood - - 182 


On the crimson breast of the sunset - 184 

TRACK ! " 

Since the toasts for the absent are over, - 188 


Oui' Life is but a moment : - - - 191 




I had a comrade tried and true, - - 193 


O, it's southward from Southampton ! and 

she takes the Channel gay, - - - 194 


Where the smoke-clouds scarcely drift - 198 


They are fighting beyond Coolgardie, 

dusty and worn and brown, - - 200 


This is the homestead— the still lagoon - 202 


Hurrah for the storm-clouds sweeping ! - 204 


They shepherd their Black Sheep down to 

the ships, 206 


The liijht ice fulluiv throiujh a mist of tears 208 




a weird, wild road is the Wallaby 
Track 210 


Are you tired of the South Land, com- 
rade— 212 


1 remember, ever so long ago, - - 215 


Life's race for all is even-lapped - - 218 


From dawning to dusk moves the crowd in 

her street ----- 220 


Was it early in the autumn, was it sunny 

summer weather ? - - - - 222 


We fight on far tracks unknown ; - - 225 


" New Moon to->iight '." you will hear thevi 

say, ------- 227 




The camp-fire gleams resistance - - 229 


The Spring is warm and waking, and the 

Avattle's bursting bud ; - - - 232 


The song-thrush loves the laurel, - - 235 


If the lonely graves are scattered in that 

fenceless vast God's Acre, - - - 237 


I chanced on an old brown book to-day 239 


Last night in Memory's boughs as wing, - 241 


A lithe young squatter passes in the dust, 243 


Have you learnt the soi-row of windy 

nights 244 


Let the sailor tell of the roaring gale - 246 




Somewhere, hid in our hearts, a City 

stands -..--. 248 


The lamps will be lit over seas to-night, - 250 


So here at the last I find - - - 252 


O, we think we're happy roving ! - - 254 


A red rose grew on a southward wall, - 257 


I watched by the homestead where moon- 
beam and star ----- 259 


Beyond where farthest drought-fires 

burn, .-...- 262 


Take this farewell from one must leave - 264 


Life has tvreatlis of each hue 

But the Cypress hinds all of them ; 
Wreaths of Rose and 0/ Hue, 

Life has ivreaths of each hue, 
Laurel wreaths for a few, 

Hemlock wreaths and the yall of ihem ; 
lAfe has wreaths of each hue 

But the Cypress binds all of them. 


The nodding plumes steal slowly by ; 

Fair women turn their heads aside ; 
And yet the purest there must die 

As poor Love-Leila died. 

In town, a boy who never knew 

Of better love than this 
Is mourning Leila's eyes of blue, 

And lone for Leila's kiss. 

A horseman on the burning plains 

A hundred miles north-west 
Bends gently o'er his bridle-reins 

And prays for Leila, Rest ! 

A man who buried all his dreams 

Of Love long years ago, 
Has dropped one other tear where gleams 

Love-Leila's breast of snow. 


All virtuous the world appears ; 

But those who turn aside 
May never win such honest tears 

As fell when Leila died. 


THE mouutains speak of sadness ! 
There is gloom ou ridge and spur ; 

But they cannot dim the gladness 
In my heart because of her. 

All day long I feel her near me ; 
To my soul her presence steals ; 

"When I whisper she can hear me 
Through the rolling of the wheels. 

1 can see my gold -haired Freda 

(By the dull world undescried) 
As I steer the old brown leader 

Deftly down the mountain side ; 
As I chide the lazy shaf ter 

Through the pine-spears on the grass, 
I can hear her gentle laughter 

In the green boughs as I pass. 


And at times I hear her singing 

Softly when the west winds blow, 
And the feathered pines are swinging 

On the range-top to and fro : 
Dreamily I drive my cattle, 

Lulled to sleep above their reins 
By the wheels' eternal I'attle 

And the clinking of the chains. 

And her songs of love have stirred me, 

And I've answered from the shaft, 
Till the wondering 'possums heard me 

And the kookaburras laughed ! 
Passion reigns the wide world over : 

Pi'ince and pauper own his sway ; 
And a lover is a lover 

Though he drive a two-horse dray ! 

Days are long and wheat's to carry 

Now ; but when the summer's by, 
Fate allowing, we shall marry, 

Gold-haired Freda, you and I : 
When in stress of winter weather 

Flowers are dead and skies are gray, 
We'll go jogging home together, 

Loved and lover in a dray. 


Life is dull and toil unending ; 

But the voice of Love is sweet, 
And the tide is always tending 

To the ti-yst where lovers meet ; 
Life is commonplace and real, 

Yet along its rock-strewn way 
Each man sees his own ideal 

As he dreams upon his dray ! 


No sweep of hill or valley, 

No meadows daisy -pearled, 
To break the line of mallee 

That bounds our little world. 
The sun begins his bondage 

Behind the mallee tops. 
And through their soft green frondage 

The sun at evening drops . . . 

So day by day is given : 

And night by night ive pray, 

" Help, Lord nj" Hell or Heaven, 
To pass the time away .'" 

A canter through the clearing 
To where a white roof gleams ; 

A vow, a passioned hearing, 
A mockery of Love's dreams : 


Clasped hands and burning kisses, 

And whispers soft to say : 
" There's no such way as this is 

To pass the time away ! " 

A gleam of snow-white shoulder, 

A clasp of rounded arms ; 
A month . . . and Love grown colder 

Has lost his luring charms. 
A careless farewell spoken 

For ever and a day — 
And one more hrave heart broken 

To pass tlie time away ! 


You stand at my knee, Gold Tresses ! 

Most true of all lovers of mine, 
With lips that are fashioned for kisses 

And fingers that thrill where they twine ; 
And bitter at heart thus early, 

And weary of life am I, 
And you are so happy, girlie — 

The sun and the birds say, why ! 

Your heart is so pure. Gold Tresses ! 

You know of no life like mine 
That is hot to the brow with kisses 

And red to the lips with wine — 
The hate in her courtly greetings, 

The scorn of her soft replies. 
The shame of her stolen meetings, 

The grief of her wild good-byes. 



Oh, fashion your wreaths in the sunlight 

Untouched of the mist and the rain, 
For Youth is the rose light, the one light 

That never will gird us again ; 
And ours is the load you must borrow 

And ours is the path you must fare. 
Who have passed by the archways of Sorrow 

And knocked at the gates of Despair. 

You nestle with soft arms around me, 

Your face is upturned to my own. 
The chains that have crippled and bound me 

Lie heavy and cold as a stone ; 
And out to the sunlight there surges 

A passionate longing and wild — 
Ah, these are the whips and the scourges 

The lips and the hands of a child ! 


A SPIDER floated a silken thread 

In the grey of a misty morn 
To fetter a rose to a i^osebud red, 

A bloom to a bloom forlorn. 

The dews brought diamond gifts to leave, 

The winds of dawn crooned by, 
And the spider toiled with a heart to weave 

A web that would fill the sky. 

The sun leaned out of the lifting mist 
And laughed to the silver threads, 

And wherever his passionate lips had kissed 
Burned beautiful blues and reds. 

But the maiden came with a sunny face 
And a butterfly-net in her hand. 

And shattered the web in her reckless race — 
Too happy to understand. 


And she danced away to the garden-door 
With the wreck of her hands unseen, 

But a rose will swing to a rose no more 
"With a silver chain between. 


With laughter and love-spells and witch-eyes of blue 
A girl in the township is waiting for you. 
There is nothing that thrills like a handclasp of hers, 
So bridle your best horse and buckle your spurs ; 
We'll wait not for moonlight, but saddle and ride 
With the lights of the township our goal and our 

There are glasses to empty and yarns to be spun ; 
There are cards to be handled and coin to be won ; 
There are light-footed dancers that wait in the hall 
For the boys from the station to open the ball, 
With its waltzes for wooing and lancers for love 
While the lights of the township are dancing above 

The day has been long in the dust and the heat, 
But the way will be short with a guerdon so sweet ; 


The songs of the rover will shorten the miles 

That the queen of our fancy makes bright with her 

smiles ; 
And stirrup to stirrup we'll sing as we ride 
To the lights of the township that glimmer and 


We'll welcome old faces, our glasses we'll fill 
Till the silver moon drops on the crest of the hill ; 
The words of our love to the night shall be borne, 
Our song to the dawn^vind, our laughs to the morn ; 
We'll dance till the sunbeams are out in the sky 
And the lights of the township gleam faintly and die. 

The world may despise us, and parsons disprove 
That the night is for dancing and drinking and love, 
But we'll saddle our horses and ride to the dance 
And drink to the beauty that kills at a glance ; 
We'll hold to our loves and we'll stick to our creed 
As long as the lights of the township may lead ! 


There were trailing roses behiud her 

And roses tall on the lawn, 
And Love for a gift had twined her 

A crown of the crimson dawn ; 
She pondered on Life's swift changes, 

Looked westward and wondered why, 
And fluttered a scarf to the ranges — 

And this was the girl's good-bye. 

He rode with his burden of sorrow 

To the crest of the Big Divide, 
And he thought of the long lone morrow 

And bent to the reins and sighed ; 
But turned with a great grief laden. 

And looked back once to the dell. 
And waved a hand to the maiden — 

And this was the man's farewell. 


Her heart was untouched as the snow's is, 

And cold as the white young year's ; 
She could not see for her roses, 

And he — for his blinding tears ; 
But no worlds wait for a woven spell. 

Though hope in the heart should die, 
"Wliile brave men part wdth a fond farewell — 

And girls with a light good-bye ! 


" Perhaps to-night ! " came flashing through the 


Of gleaming lights and gems and faces fair, 
The touching hands, the whispers low and tender, 

The love-lit glances and the scented air ; 
And then the beauty flickered down and faded, 

A shadow grew and lingered on the light, 
The shadow of a sword that hung keen-bladed 

Above the revellers. " Perhaps to night ! " 

" Perhaps to-night ! " If Death had passed the 


And clasped our hand in his before them all 
We should have wept those vows and burning answers 

And all the glamour of the lighted hall ; 
But far from love and lover in the meadow 

We wait his summons and our eyes are bright. 
For nothing but a friend can be the shadow. 

And nothing but a hope — " Perhaps to-night ! " 


You damn all women as wantons or worse 
For a lover proved false in the days gone by : 

There are women to worship as well as to cxirse — 
And rows will break while the sun rides hiyh ! 

Had you never a sister who held your hand 

As you loitered together in Babyland, 

Who guided your steps to the brightest bowers 

Where the life-dawn flushed on the fairest flowers 1 

Had you never a mother who heard you lisp 

Your baby prayers at her dear old knee, 

Before Love's flame like a will-o'-the-wisp 

Had lured you away to the storm-tossed sea 1 

Had you never a lover — before this last — 

True to the dream ere the dream had passed ; 

Never a token, a tress or a curl, 

To bind your life to one true-heart girl 1 

B 17 


You damn all women as wantons or tvorse 
For a lover proved false in the days gone by . 

Say, tvas the hlame of it — all of it — hers? 
We are not so immaculate, you and I. 


The saddle-slaves of Love are we 

Who mount by sun and moon, 
No matter what the season be 

So long as it be soon ! 
The golden and the gray light 

Have seen the girth-straps drawn 
For Love that rules the daylight, 

The dark and dusk and dawn. 

What hoof beat on the gravel ! 

What haste with Love to be ! 
What snatching at the snaffle ! 

What reefing, head to knee ! 
Now faster still and faster ! 

The white Moon laughs above : 
She knows we have no master 

Except the Lord of Love. 


The low road keeps the river, 

The high road skirts the hill — 
No road so short but ever 

We find a shorter still ; 
And if the floods run blindly 

Where Love, not Life, 's the loss, 
Dame Fortune treats us kindly 

And holds our hands across. 

The Bush- Wind blows to meet us 

As though she understands ; 
The hop-bush holds to greet us 
A hundred clasping hands ; 
There's not a bird but sings us 

A welcome in the grove : 
They know 't is Love that brings us — 
And all the world loves Love ! 

Be skies alight or leaden 

Long miles bring no regret. 
And if the white spurs redden 

Our horses soon forget : 
So toss the bars, my beauty ! 

And cream the reins with foam ; 
It's ten moon-miles to duty. 

And ten more dawn-miles home ! 


Gleam lights in the verandah ; 

Flash lamps across the lawn ; 
But soft the shadows yonder 

Where reins are tightly di-awn. 
Out there the dews are glistening ; 

The leaves are scarcely stirred, 
So close the Night- Wind's listening 

To every whispered word ! 

The Moon she dips to morning ; 

The lamps are burning low, 
Our love belated scorning . . . 

" One kiss before I go ! " 
Now slowly through the starlight . . . 

Slow, slow, in dreams away . . . 
Till eastward gleams the far light 

That leads the breaking Day. 


You have crossed my life with your fair sweet face ; 

You are filling my lone heart's vacant place ; 

Your whispered Avords and your arms that cling 

Are a link in Love's remembering ; 

For your forms are alike as the angels are, 

Your faces are moulded as star and star. 

I have taken your hand that is soft to take, 
I have held it long for an old love's sake ; 
I have played with the curls of your golden head 
As I played with gold curls in a day long dead ; 
And your rose-red lips I have tasted seem 
Like the red-rose lips of a fading dream. 

I held her once in my arms of old ; 
I kissed her twice, but her lips were cold : 
I clasped you close to my heart to-night, 
A heaving bosom of snowdrift white ; 



But there's never a snow could quench the fire 
That burned in your passionate lips' desii'e ! 

With the pleading words 't is a wrong to name 
You are holding your brow for the brand of shame ; 
There is never a pleasure I could not prove 
In the name of the passion you think is Love ; 
There is never a freedom I might not take, 
But ... I spare you, girl, for an old love's sake ! 

I could blacken the fame you hold so cheap 
While moonbeams sorrow and white stars weep ; 
But I drop your hand, though it give you pain — 
I dream no dream on your lips again . . . 
What reck if your heart, like mine, shall break ? 
/ will spare your soul for Her white soul's sake ! 


Hear me now ! for Time is flying, 

And the beating of his wings 
Drowns the vows of Love undying. 

Dims the light where Memory clings ! 
All the saddest songs of Sorrow 

Are the dirges of Delay, 
And our hearts may lose to-morrow 

What our hands may hold to-day. 

When a grave beside the river 

Claims the last of Love and you, 
And Death's hand has dried for ever 

All our wreaths of rose and rue ; 
When the winding grass above you 

Hides Hope's brightest lamp away, 
How are you to know I love you 

If I must not speak to-day 1 


TO-DAY ! 25 

When above your silent sleeping 

Pitying pine-boughs moan and toss, 
And the moonbeams pale with weeping 

Fling their snow-white arms across ; 
When the one star that was nearest 

Dims and dies a world away, 
How am I to tell you, Dearest 1 . . 

Let me speak my love to-day / 


Now, money was scarce and work was slack 

And Love to his heart crept in, 
And he rode away on the Northern track 

To war with the World and win ; 
And he vowed by the locket upon his breast 

And its treasure, one red-gold curl, 
To work with a will in the farthest West 

For the sake of his Gippsland girl. 

The hot wind blows on the dusty plain 

And the red sun burns above, 
But he sees her face at his side again. 

And he strikes each blow for Love : 
He toils by the light of one far-off star 

For the winning of one white pearl, 
And the swinging pick and the driving bar 

Strike home for the Gippsland girl. 



With aching wrist and a back that's bent, 

With salt sweat blinding his eyes, 
'Tis little he'd reck if his life were spent 

In winning so grand a prize ; 
And his shear-blades flash and over his hand 

The folds of the white fleece curl, 
And all day long he sticks to his stand 

For the love of his Gippsland girl. 

When the shearing's done and the sheds cut out 

On Barwon and Narran and Bree ; 
When the shearer mates with the rouseabout 

And the Union man with the free ; 
When the doors of the shanty, open wide, 

An uproarious welcome hurl. 
He passes by on the other side 

For the sake of his Gippsland girl. 

When Summer lay brown on the Western Land 

He rode once more to the South, 
Athirst for the touch of a lily hand 

And the kiss of a rosebud mouth ; 
And he sang the songs that shorten the way, 

And he envied not king or earl. 
And he spared not the spur in his dappled gray 

For the sake of his Gippsland girl. 


At the garden gate when the shadows fell 

His hopes in the dusk lay dead ; 
" Nellie 1 Oh ! Surely you heard that Nell 

Is married a month ! " they said. 
He spoke no word ; with a dull, dumb pain 

At his heart, and his brain awhirl. 
He turned his gray to the North again 

For the sake of his Gippsland girl. 

And he rung the board in a Paroo shed 

By the sweat of his aching brow, 
And he blued his cheque, for he grimly said : 

" There is nothing to live for now." 
And out and away where the big floods start 

And the Dai'ling dust-showers whirl. 
There's a drunken shearer that broke his heart 

Over a Gippsland girl ! 


We have rowed together at even-fall 
Down the creek in the sunset glow, 
Under the vines and the box-trees tall 

That fringe the shores. 

Di}) fn/t file oars ! 
Dip soft the oars and whisper low. 

We have ridden away in the golden noon 
Over the range where the sandals grow, 
To wander home by a summer moon 

On silver plains. 

Draw ti(jht the reins! 
Draw tight the reins and whisper low. 

We have sat in the garden at close of day 
Watching the light from the blossoms go. 
And the darkling branches melt away 

To Shadow Land. 

Love, hold my hand ! 
Love, hold my hand and whisper low. 


And now we two, though the years have passed, 

Live in the Love of long ago, 

Love that endured, and Love that will last 

As long as life. 

Kiss me, my wi/e ! 
Kiss me, my wife, and whisper low. 


O, WHO was it saddled White Star last night. 

And who was it saddled White Star 1 
You can read his track to the rails and back 

And down the creek ever so far. 
O, moonlight is lovers' light, Somebody knows, 

And witch-time the season to woo, 
And down in the bend where the kurrajong grows 

The tracks have been trodden by two ! 

O, who was it galloped White Star last night, 

When gold stars jewelled the sky 1 
You can see the brand of saddle and band 

In sweat that is clotted and dry. 
O, Somebody raced, with the world asleep, 

To a tryst that Somebody knew. 
And over the blue-grass fetlock-deep 

The white hoofs scattered the dew ! 



O, who was it fastened "White Star last night 

To a bough of the kuiTajong-tree ? 
The deep-set grooves of his restless hooves 

Are there for the World to see. 
O, Somebody left him for True Love's sake. 

And Somebody left him long, 
For horses may hunger and bridles break 

When True Love fashions her song ! 

0, who was it fondled White Star last night 

When Somebody whispered adieu, 
And plaited the gray of his mane in a way 

That never those gray locks grew ? 
And who was it bent from his saddle-bow 

To the plea of an upturned face. 
While down in the bend where the kurrajongs grow 

The World stood still for a space 1 

O, the lover who saddled White Star last night 

It is very easy to guess, 
For his face is bright with a new-found light 

And a joy that his eyes confess. 
O, Somebody met in the moonlight snow 

Someone that cared to be kissed. 
And the veriest dolt in the world may know 

Who rode to the moonlight tryst ! 


I HAVE worked for you — toil made sweet, love ! 

And never I grudged an hour ; 
Now the dead leaves drift at our feet, love, 

That trod by the trees in flower ! 
The scent of the rose blows over — 

Dead roses of all regret ; 
And you were my only lover, 

So give me your hand, Lynette ! 

0, Love-Star loyally leading, 

You fade in the gathering gray ! 
O, Hopes that have long lain bleeding, 

I bury you deep to-day ! 
If Time has left never a token 

The. easier, love, to forget : 
So over the old spells broken 

Give me your hand, Lynette ! 


I have sounded the deeps of sorrow ; 

I have drunk to the dregs of tears ; 
I shall suffer no more to-morrow, 

No more than in dead past years ; 
And what is our life but greeting 

And parting and long regret? — 
So here's to our first mad meeting ! 

And here's to our last, Lynette ! 


We played at love in Mulga town, 

And O, her eyes were blue ! 
We played at love in Mulga town, 

And love's a game for two. 
If three should play, alack-a-day ! 

There's one of them will rue, 
Dear Heart ! 

There's one of them will rue. 

Three played at love in Mulga town, 

True love they could not hide ; 
Three played at love in Mulga town, 

Two laughed : the other sighed ; 
Though two may woo the wide world through. 

But one may kiss the bride. 
Deal- Heart ! 

But one may kiss the bride. 



Three played at love in Mulga town, 

And one's too sad to weep ; 
Three played at love in Mulga town— 

The creek runs dark and deep ; 
So warm she flows no mortal knows 

How cold her dead may sleep, 
Dear Heart / 

How cold her dead may sleep. 


The Old Boat lies in the sand and slime 

And the sun is springing her planks ; 
She is drifting away on the river of Time 

Between Eternity's banks : 
We have buried the low-toned laughter 

And the whispers the Old Boat heard, 
But the plash of the oars comes after 

And the deeps of the years are stirred. 

She has sailed with a burden of Love and Hope 

From under these same old shores, 
With white hands holding her tiller-rope 

And brown arms bent to her oars . . . 
In channels too deep for charting 

Lies buried the freight of our ship, 
And we go no more sweet-hearting 

Where Life was a pleasure trip. 


A new boat rocks at our feet to-day, 

A picture is crimson and gold, 
The daintiest craft on the creek, they say. 

But she carries no freight hke the Old ; 
She swings in her painted splendour 

The flood and the fall between, 
But there's never a blade can send her 

The way that the Old Boat's been. 

You are sport of the sunlight and weather : 

See, I drag you. Old Boat, to the shade ! 
We were comrades so often together 

For love of the one little maid . . . 
Should she come to the wilgas, I wonder 

Would ever it cost her a tear 
To see the new boat rocking under 

And you in the dead leaves up here ! 


How long shall we hear the sobbing 1 

How long shall our hearts beat slow 
To the wail of a ceaseless sorrow 

That follows us to and fro, 
WIkj watch from our safe rock -ramparts 

The wreck of the ringless brides 
On the flow of the crimson sunsets, 

On the ebb of the white moon-tides 1 

They walk in the weeping darkness, 

They hold on a wasted arm 
What Love cannot guard from hunger 

Or Passion itself keep warm ; 
They walk in the weeping darkness, 

They clasp to their breasts of shame 
The pitiful white-faced burdens 

The World will refuse to name. 


They bend to the wee wan faces, 

And scald with their burning tears 
The tiny lips that will curse them 

When knowledge has come with years ; 
They weep to their rocking cradles 

Whose labour should prove so sweet, 
And the wealth of their white girl-garlands 

Lies crushed at the gray World's feet. 

They creep to our curtained windows ; 

They stand at our doors thrice-barred ; 
And their feet are torn and bleeding 

Who found that their path was hard. 
Their hands that we held may touch us ; 

Their lips that we loved may plead ; 
But never an ear will hearken, 

And never a heart will heed. 

They shrink from the glaring sunlight. 

But down where the lamps ai-e lit 
They stretch a hand to their Sorrow 

And drink to the deeps of it ; 
There are sins that the Night will pardon. 

And smiles for the roses red . . . 
0, Woe to the maiden-mothers ! 

And Woe to the bonds unsaid ! 


How long shall we lead the victims ? 

How long in a crimson flood 
Shall the gates of our great Gomorrah 

Be washed in our sisters' blood 1 
How long shall they heap the altars 1 

How long shall their cry be heard 
Ere the fire and the brimstone teach us 

That the anger of God is stirred ! 


There's a lonely grave half -hidden where the blue- 
grass droops above, 

And the slab is rough that marks it, but we planted 
it for love ; 

There's a well-worn saddle hanging in the harness- 
room at home 

And a good old stock-horse waiting for the steps that 
never come ; 

Thei'e's a mourning rank of riders closing in on either 

O'er the vacant place he left us — he, the best of all 
the band, 

Who is lying cold and silent with his hoarded hopes 

Where the brumbies come to water at the setting of 
the sun. 


Some other mate with rougher touch will twist our 

greenhide tliongs, 
And round the fire some harsher voice will sing his 

lilting songs ; 
His dog will lick some other hand, and when the wild 

mob swings 
We'll get some slower rider to replace him in the 

wings ; 
His horse will find a master new ere twice the sun 

goes down, 
But who will kiss his light-o'-love a-weeping in the 

town 1 — 
His light o'-love who kneels at night beyond the long 

Where the brumbies come to water at the rising of 

the moon. 

We've called her hard and bitter names who chose — 

another's wife — 
To chain our comrade in her thi-all and wreck his 

strong young life ; 
We've cursed her for her cruel love that seared like 

hate — and yet 
We know when all is over there is one will not 



As she piles the white bush blossoms where her poor 
lost lover lies 

With the death-dew on his foi'ehead and the grave- 
dark in his eyes, 

Where the shadow-line is broken by the moonbeams' 
silver bars, 

And the brumbies come to water at the lighting of 
the stars. 


Here, on the broken strings of Love's mute harp, 
Across the withered flowers of all dead dreams, 
Give me your hand and take my last farewell ! 
One glance of love ! — the last from those dear eyes !- 
For out against the reddening sky, cut sharp 
Rigging and spar, her head to the ocean swell. 
Cruel as Death the great ship waiting lies. 

One dear Good-bye ! 

Hush ! say not, " As a friend "- 
The old, old phrase 't were bitterness to hear 
Only that every word you say is sweet ; 
For I have fifty friends, but not one love. 
And only ask for you here at the end 
As in those days when first we loved to meet 
With all God's world our own, His arm above. 



One prayer for me ! 

jSTay ! not " That you forget ! ' — 
For why should I forget the sweets of Life 
Who launch into its bitterness to-day 1 
But pray you rather that I keep your face 
Before me always, with its blue eyes wet 
With tears denying those cold words you say ; 
Your clinging hands almost a mute embrace 

The light of Day is growing as we stand ; 
The light of Love is dying in your eyes ; 
Before yon sun has drifted to his rest 
In crimson splendour down the western sky 
For me will fall the dark. 

Dear nestling hand, 
And soft white arms, and lips still unconfessed. 
The white sails fill ! 

Heart of my Heart, Gaoil-hye ! 


This worship of Horse 

Is a sin and a curse, 
So v)e hear in our parsons talk ; 

Bid we're steering straight 

For the Golden Gate, 
And tie may as loell ride as walk. 

Shall our frieiulship break 

O'er the way we take 
Since neither will/ollov) it back ? 

Let him hihinp his load 

Dow7i the two-chain road — 
I'm going the Bridle-Track 1 


Store cattle from Nelanjie ! The mob goes feeding 

With half -a mile of sandhill 'twixt the leaders and the 

last ; 
The nags that move behind them are the good old 

Queensland stamp — 
Short backs and perfect shoulders that are priceless 

on a camp ; 
And these are Men that ride them, broad chested, 

tanned, and tall. 
The bravest hearts amongst us and the lightest Viands 

of all : 
Oh, let them wade in Wonga grass and taste the 

Wonga dew, 
And let them spread, those thousand head — for we've 

been droving too ! 


Store cattle from Nelanjie ! By half-a-hundred 

By Northern ranges rough and red, by rolling open 

By stock-routes brown and burnt and bare, by flood- 
wrapped river-bends, 
They've hunted them from gate to gate — the drover 

has no friends ! 
But idly they may ride to-day beneath the scorching 

And let the hungry bullocks try the grass on Wonga 

No overseer will dog them here to " see the cattle 

But they may spread their thousand head — for we've 

been droving too ! 

Store cattle from Nelanjie ! They've a naked track 

to steer ; 
The stockyards at Wodonga are a long way down 

from here ; 
The creeks won't run till God knows when, and half 

the holes are dry ; 
The tanks are few and far between and water's dear 

to buy : 


There's plenty at the Brolga bore for all his stock and 

mine — 
We'll pass him with a brave God-speed across the 

Border line ; 
And if he goes a five-mile stage and loiters slowly 

We'll only think the more of him — for we've been 

droving too ! 

Store cattle from Nelanjie ! They're mute as milkers 

But yonder grizzled drover, with the care-lines on his 


Could tell of merry musters on the big Nelanjie 

With blood upon the chestnut's flanks and foam upon 

the reins ; 
Could tell of nights upon the road when those same 

mild eyed steers 
Went ringing round the river bend and through the 

scrub like spears ; 
And if his words are rude and rough, we know his 

words are true, 
We know what wild Nelanjies are — and we've been 

droving too ! 


Store cattle from Nelanjie ! Around the fire at 

They've watched the pine-tree shadows hft before the 
dancing light ; 

They've lain awake to listen when the weird bush- 
voices speak, 

And heard the lilting bells go by along the empty 
creek ; 

They've spun the yarns of hut and camp, the tales of 
play and work. 

The wondrous tales that gild the road from Norman- 
ton to Bourke ; 

They've told of fortunes foul and fair, of women false 
and true, 

And well we know the songs they've sung — for we've 
been droving too ! 

Store cattle from Nelanjie ! Their breath is on the 

breeze ; 
You hear them tread, a thousand head, in blue-grass 

to the knees ; 
The lead is on the netting-fence, the wings are 

spreading wide. 
The lame and laggard scarcely move — so slow the 

drovers ride ! 


But let them stay and feed to-day for sake of Auld 

Lang Syne ; 
They'll nevex* get a chance like this below the Border 

And if they tread our frontage down, what's that to 

me or you ? 
What's ours to /are, by God they'll share ! for we've been 

droving too ! 


He Wcas the Red Creek overseer, a trusted man and 

Whose shoulder never left the wheel when there was 

work to do ; 
Through all the day he rode the run, and when the 

lights grew dim 
The sweetest wife that ever loved would wait and 

watch for him. 
She brought him dower of golden hair and eyes of 

laughing blue, 
Stout heart and cunning bridle-hand to guide the 

mulga through ; 
And when the mob was mustered from the box flats 

far and wide 
She loved to mount the wildest colts that no one else 

would ride. 



And once it chanced a wayward steed, half-mouthed 

and roughly broke, 
Denied the touch of gentle hand and gentler words 

she spoke, 
And, plunging forward like the ship that feels the 

autumn gales, 
He reared and lost his footing and fell backwards on 

the rails. 
Her husband bent above her A\dth cold terror at his 

heart — 
The form was still he loved so well, the Avan lips 

would not part ; 
And all the day in trance she lay, but when the stars 

smiled down 
He heard his name low-whispered and he claimed her 

still his own. 
And afterward he spoke his fear : " Heart's Love, if 

yoic should die I . . . 
Unless you take your orders from some other man 

than I, 
You shall never finger bridle, never mount on horse's 

Till the outlaw on Gleuidol is a broken lady's 

hack ! " 


There's an outlaw on Glenidol that is known through 

all the West, 
And three men's lives are on his head, bold riders of 

the best ; 
The station lads have heard the sneer that travelled 

far and wide 
And flung the answering challenge : " Come and 

teach us how to ride ! 
Roll up, ye merry riders all, whose honour is to 

guard ! 
We've mustered up the ranges and The Rebel's in the 

yard ; 
His open mouth and stamping foot and keen eye 

flashing fire 
Repeat the temper of his dam, the mettle of his 

Roll up, ye merry riders all, from hut and camp and 

town ! 
You'll have to stick like plaster when the stockyard 

rails go down. 
But the boss will come down handsome, as the boss 

is wont to come. 
To the first who brings The Rebel under spurs and 

"reenhide home." 


And the stockmen heard the challenge from the 

Cooper to the Bree, 
And rode from hut and cattle-camp by one and two 

and three 
To keep their horseman's honour clean and play a 

hero's part, 
To best the bold Glenidol boys and break The Rebel's 


And Ruddy Neil, the breaker, from the Riverine 

came through 
With all the latest breaking-gear, and all the wiles he 

But ere the saddle was secured, before a girth was 

The Rebel's forefoot split his skull — they buried him 

at dawn ! 
Mai-ora Mick, the half-caste, from the Flinders River 

To give the South-the-Border boys a lesson at the 

game ; 
But he got a roguish welcome when he entered New 

South Wales, 
For The Rebel used his blood and brains to paint the 

stockyard rails ! 


And Mulga Jack came over from the Yuinburra 

side — 
The horse was never foaled, they say, that Mulga 

could not ride : 
With a mouth as hard as a miser's heart, a ^vill like 

the Devil's own, 
The Rebel made for the 8tony Range with the man 

who wouldn't be thrown ; 
The Rebel made for the Stony Range, where the 

plain and the scrub-land meet, 
And the dead boughs cracked at his shoulder-blade, 

the stones leapt under his feet. 
And the ragged stems of the gidyas cut and tore as 

they blundered past 
And Jack lay cold in the sunset gold — he had met 

with his match at last. 

And once again the challenge rang, the bitterer for 

And spoke the bold Glenidol boys, their jackets 

mulga-torn : 
" A week have we been hunting him and riding fast 

and hard 
To give you all another chance — The Rebel's in the 


And the stockineu heard the challenge from the 

Cooper to the Bree ; 
But " I'm getting old ! " " I'm getting stiff! " or " I've 

a Avife, you see ! " 
Came whispered to the border : and the horse they 

could not tame 
Had saved Glenidol from disgrace and cleansed a 

sullied name. 
But ere the reddening sun went down and night on 

the ranges broke 
A stranger youth to the slip-rails rode, and fastened 

his horse and spoke 
Softly and low, yet not so low but that every man 

there heard : 
" I've come to tackle your outlaw colt," — and he 

looked as good as his word. 
He bridled The Rebel in failing light, and saddled the 

colt and drew 
The straps of his gearing doubly tight and looked that 

his " length" was true. 
He mounted The Rebel and gave the word, and the 

clattering rails went down. 
And the outlaw leapt at the open gate and into the 

shadows brown ; 


But he settled himself to the soothing voice and the 

touch of the fondling hand, 
As it followed the cui've of his arching neck from 

wither to forehead-band ; 
His flanks were wet with the fresh-sprung sweat, his 

shoulders lathered with foam, 
And he bent to the bridle and played -with the bit as 

he came at a canter home. 
And the boys were dumb with wonder, and sat, and 

the Red Creek overseer 
Was first to drop from the stockyard fence and give 

him a hearty cheer. 
He raised his hat in answer and . . the gold hair 

floated free ! 
And the blue eyes lit with laughter as she shouted 

merrily : 
" You can reach me down my bridle, give my girths 

and saddle back, 
For the outlaw of Glenidol is a broken lady's hack ! " 


SOME prefer a single, 

Or double not too free ; 
But let the lead bars jingle — 

It's Four-in-Hand for me ; 
With a level road and a lively load, 

Whose chorus songs shall beat 
To the hoof-struck stars, and the rattling bars. 

And the ring of the red roans' feet I 

We'll meet some risks as we moA-e along — 

And maybe more than we dream ; 
But we only ask for harness strong, 

And room to handle the team. 
I'll give the rein, and give again. 

And whirl the whip-lash free, 
Till every place shall know my pace 

My four red roans and me ! 



Our Life's too short for dreaming, 

And Life's too swift for tears, 
With all the wide world ffleamina: 

Beyond our leaders' ears ; 
The white dust whirls to blind us, 

The coach top rocks and reels, 
But trouble's flung behind us 

Beneath our roaring wheels ! 

By day the sun shall light us. 

The peaks of pleasure guide ; 
No storms have power to smite us, 

So fast we race and ride ! 
By night, through moon-wash spinning. 

We'll mock the million stars. 
With all Luck's goblins grinning 

Astride our swingle-bars ! 

So lift the loin-cloths from the reds 

And hand me up the whip ; 
Let go the plunging leader's heads 

And let the beauties rip ! 
Here's luck to shoulders foam-impearled. 

And eyes where wild-fires gleam ! 
We'll swing the red roans round the world 

Till Death reins up the team ! 


If ever you're handling a rough one 

There's bound to be perched on the rails 
Of the Stockyard some grizzled old tough one 

Whose flow of advice never fails ; 
There are plenty, of course, who aspire 

To make plain that you're only a dunce. 
But the most insupportable liar 

Is the man who has ridden 'em once. 

He -sWll tell you a tale and a rum one. 

With never a smile on his face, 
How he broke for old Somebody Some-one 

At some unapproachable place ; 
How they bucked and they snorted and squealed. 

How he spurred em and flogged 'em, and how 
He would gallop 'em round till they reeled — 

But he's '* getting too old for it now." 



How you're standing too far from her shoulder, 

Or too jolly close to the same, 
How he could have taught you to hold her 

In the days when he " followed the game ;" 
He will bustle, annoy and un-nerve us 

Till even our confidence fails — 
Shade of old Nimrod ! preserve us 

From the beggar that sits on the rails ! 

How your reins you are holding too tightly, 

Your girth might as well be unloosed ; 
How " young chaps" don't handle them rightly, 

And horses don't buck " like they used ; " 
Till at last, in a bit of a passion, 

You ask him in choicest " Barcoo " 
To go and be hanged, in a fashion 

That turns the whole atmosphei'e blue ! 

And the chances are strong the old buffer 

Has been talking for something to say, 
And never rode anything rougher 

Than the shaft of old Somebody's dray ; 
And the horses he thinks he has broken 

Are clothes-horses sawn out of pine. 
And his yarns to us simply betoken 

The start of a senile decline. 


There are laws for our proper protection 

From murder and theft and the rest, 
But the criminal wanting inspection 

Is riding a rail in the West ; 
And the law that the country requires 

At the hands of her statesmen of sense 
Is a law to make meat of the liars 

That can sit a rouyh buck— on the fence ! 


Dawn gilds the spiders' bridges ; 

Morn mocks the shadows' rout ; 
A mile back on the ridges 

They put the head-lights out ; 
A red-topped coach from Nor' ward 

Comes down with clacking bars : 
The waking Day lies forward, 

Behind — the drowsy stars ! 
A foe no floods can ruin, 

A force no droughts abate. 
The night mail from the Tuen 

Swings through the Border Gate ! 

A still world, faint and swooning 

Beneath a fevered sky ; 
Before the great wheels' groaning 

Slow bullocks snailing by ; 



With dusty, cursing drivei's, 

And roaring fall of whips 
Comes rocking from red rivers 

The cream of Queensland clips. 
" Get off, there ! Cluum and Drover ! " 

The brown loads creak and grate. 
" Stand over, thfire ! Stand Over ! " 

She clears the Border Gate ! 

A sunset-fired horizon 

Beyond the dust-wrack dense, 
A draft from Jimmy Tyson 

Slow-feeding to the fence ; 
A rush of long-horned leaders, 

A tramp of feet below, 
A ripping of red " bleeders " 

And " Wuh, there ! Woh, boys ! WoH-H ! " 
The posts are strong — with reason, 

Which stand to such a weight ; 
The finest stores this season 

Crowd through the Border Gate ! 

The old gay life is over ; 

We've left the great North Road ; 
The red dust wraps the drover. 

The gray dust hides the load ; 


Though no more I'll go through you, 

Old Gate of Memories mine ! 
I wave a brown hand to you 

From long leagues down the line 
Wherever Time shall speed me 

Before the winds of Fate 
I know my dreams will lead me 

Back to the Border Gate ! 


Steady! steady, my pearl! from the crest of the 
One last look behind us : the roofs of the town 
Are lit with red fires that quiver and change 

Where the sun in the westward goes royally 
down ! 
Yonder light will return to the township again, 
But we are cast out from the dwellings of men. 

You — the pride of the paddock, the pick of the 
The bold one that scorned to be bridled and 
Whose mettle and swiftness shall now be my guard, 

Whose courage and confidence girdle me round ! 
I — who struck for my honour, as others can tell, 
The blow that was given too straightly and well ! 


Outlaws both, you and I ! Through the night and the 
From red flush of dawning till rise of the moon, 
The sound of your hoof-beat shall echo away 
By rock-ragged ranges and reedy lagoon ; 
And their steeds will be swift and their trackers be 

If we stand to their challenge, " In name of the 
Queen ! " 

With our bed in the bluegrass, our tower on the 
Our kingdom the scrub-land from centre to sea, 
The wild-fowl that sweep from the billabong edge 

Are never so curbless of pinion as we — 
With only the coast-line for bolts and for bars, 
With our roof-beam the sky and our lamp light the 
stars ! 

Ay ! they feared you of old time, the cravens that 
From the rails of the yard when the danger began ! 
And now, should they follow, they'll find at the last 
There is more to be feared from a desperate man ; 
And they'll know by red spurs and by foam covered 

They are riding the tracks of the Pride of the Plains ! 


From the roofs of the township the sun-fire has fled, 
And the Night Queen will reign in her majesty 
soon ; 
Shall life be less dear for the sunlight that's dead ? 
When the shadows are falling we'll ride by the 
moon ; 
And the limitless bush where the wild cattle roam 
Shall lend to the outlaws a refuge and home. 


There's a phantom-coach runs nightly along the 
Western creeks ; 

Her four black steeds step lightly, her driver never 
speaks ; 

The horses keep their places across the flood-worn 

Yet no man sees their traces, their bits or bridle- 
reins ; 

For welcome or for wai'ning she shows no lamp or 

A shadow till the morning she steals across the night. 

She never wants for passengers, the back-creek settlers 

A price so moderate as hers the poorest purse can 




The lost one, missed by measure of days or maybe 

Pays lightly for the pleasure of coaching down the 

creeks ; 
And station-hands and squatters, alike in ease 

May praise the whirling trotters whose hoofs outstrip 

the wind. 

You hear no lead-bars creaking, no footfall on the 

ground ; 
In silence past all speaking the flying wheels go 

round ; 
The horses have no breeders, their driver has no name, 
But he swings his reefing leaders like a man that 

knows the game ; 
And through the stony ranges where swift hoofs strike 

no fire 
They want no wayside changes, these steeds that never 


They're fit to " stay " for ever, and are never short of 

work ; 
They run the Darling River fi'om Menindie Lake to 



Where a thousand watercourses, bank-full or bound 

with drought, 
Have seen the silent horses go gliding in and out. 
Where the stars in red battalions are marshalled in 

the sky 
To watch the black-maned stallions with the muffled 

hoofs go by. 

They fear him on the Barwon and curse him on the 

And wish his goal a far one, where'er that goal may 

be ; 
But ever back and forward, in silence, source to 

He runs the rivers Nor'ward and runs the rivers 

South ; 
When winds the wavelets feather between the flood 

and fall 
He holds the blacks together and hears the dead 

men call. 

In drifted flood- wrack sailing on every swirling 

He hears his patrons hailing, and checks his noiseless 

team ; 


In belts of timber shady, when all the holes are 

His guests are waiting ready when the phantom 

wheels go b}% 
For every man in good time must book for Further 

It may be in the Flood-time — it may be in the 

Drought ! 

Her load of clay-cold faces she never carries back ; 
The dim wheels leave no traces, the shoeless hoofs no 

track ; 
But all along the river in the bends that she has 

The giant gum-trees shiver in a strange and icy 

blast ; 
The clumps of scented sandal are tainted with her 

And teams are hard to handle behind the Coach of 


She lifts no nmd in winter, and stirs no summer 

Her pole-bars never splinter, her lock-bolts never 

rust ; 


Her parts are stout for wearing and strong her simple 

She'll run without repairing from year to deathful 

When every coach is rotten on the Western water- 

And Cobb and Co. forgotten and all their drivers 
dead ! 


So I've taken his hundred notes in the end, 

And now, as I turn them over, 
I feel like a man who's been false to a friend, 

Or has broken his troth to a lover. 
And what will they pui'chase, when all is said. 

For me with the world's wealth laden 1 
A barrel or two of Kaludah red. 

Or the favour of some light maiden ! 

Our wine turns gall at the gray day's birth 
When the lamp of the revel paleth ; 

We know what the kiss of a woman is worth- 
But a good horse never faileth. 

Your white arms clinging, my ringless bride, 
Are bonds that the years will sever ; 

But the brave hoof-thunder of Darrell's stride 
Will beat in my heart for ever ! 


You know how little of truth there lies 

In the heart of your hot caresses ; 
There is danger hid in your dreamful eyes, 

There is death in your winding tresses ; 
And, since you would turn for a fairer face 

Or a stronger arm's enfolding, 
You will never hold in my heart the place 

That one honest horse is holding. 

The stars are fading by one and one 

And the fires of the dawn are lightening 
The web that a pitiless Fate has spun, 

And my own cursed hand is tightening ; 
Oh ! better this arm had lost its force, 

This brain in the dust lain idle, 
Before I bartered the grandest horse 

That ever carried a bridle ! 


They were boasting on the Greenhide of tlieir nags of 
fancy breed, 
And stuffing them with bran and oats to run in 
Gumleaf Town, 
But we hadn't got a racehorse that was worth a dish 
of feed, 
So didn't have a Buckley's show to take the 
boasters down. 

For old Midnight was in Sydney and we couldn't get 
him up 
In time for Gumleaf Races if it had been worth our 
while ; 
The Chorus colt was far too light to win the Gumleaf 
And we didn't own a hackney that could finish out 
the mile. 


But we couldn't watch them win it while we never 
had a say, 
So we mustered up the horses, and we caught old 
Myall King ; 
He's as brave as ever galloped, but he's twelve if he's 
a day, 
And we couldn't help but chuckle at the humour 
of the thing. 

But, though shaky in the shoulders, he's the daddy of 
them all ; 
He's the gamest bit of horseflesh from the Snowy 
to the Bree ; 
One of those that's never beaten, coming every time 
you call : 
One of those you sometimes read about but very 
seldom see. 

He's the don at every muster and the king of every 
camp ; 
He's the lad to stop the pikers when they take you 
on the rush; 
And he loves the merry rattle of the stockwhip and 
the tramp 
Of the cockhorned mulga scrubbers when they're 
breaking in the brush. 


He can foot the Greenhide brumbies if they take a 
mile of start, 
And if they get him winded in a gallop on the 
He's as game as any lion, and he carries such a 
You can never say he's beaten, for he'll always come 
again ! 

So we put up Jack the Stockman with his ten pounds 
And be lengthened out the leathers half-a-foot and 
gave a smile : 
" I don't suppose you'll see us when they're fairly in 
the straight. 
But we'll make the beggars travel, take my oath, 
for half-a-mile ! " 

And they started, and the old horse jimiped away 
a length in front, 
And every post they came to gave the brown a 
longer lead, 
Till it seemed that there was nothing else but ]Myall 
in the hunt, 
With his load of station honour and bis weight of 
mulga feed ! 

F 81 


Then the bay mare, Bogan Lily, started out to cut 
him down ; 
She had travelled out five hundred miles to win the 
Gumleaf Cup, 
And she couldn't well get beaten by a hack in Gum- 
leaf Town 
When she had to pay expenses for her owner's 
journey up. 

So she started out to catch the old brown camp-horse 
from the Bush, 
And a furlong from the finish she could nose his 
rider's knee, 
Then you should have heard the shouting of the Bogan 
Lily push, 
And the flinging of their hats up was a sight for 
you to see ! 

But old Myall King j^had often been as nearly beat 
And he steadied off a little, while the mare shot out 
Then he shook his ears and gripped the bit — you 
should have heard us roar 
As he came at Bogan Lily with his flanks a streak 
of red ! 


And the little bay mare, beaten, gave him best and 
threw it up, 
And we heard her rider murmur as he saw the 
brown horse pass 
And Jack the Stockman drop his hands and win the 
Gumleaf Cup — 
" Beat by a hungry cripple of a camp-horse, off 
the grass ! " 

Then we lead him in a winner, and they cheei'ed him 
from the stand, 
With the black sweat running channels from his 
forearm to his foot, 
And the white foam on his shoulder till you couldn't 
see the brand, 
And the crimson bloodstains scattered over spur 
and flank and boot. 

So we carried off the honours of the meeting — and the 
notes / 
And the men on Greenhide River, when they see 
our fellows pass, 
Will tell you this in whispers, " You can train your 
nags on oats. 
But be careful when you're racing those dashed 
scrubbers off the grass ! " 


On a little old bush racecourse at the back of No 

Man's Land, 
Where the mulgas mark the f ui'long, and a dead log 

marks the stand, 
There's a square of painted railing showing white 

against the loam 
Where they fight for inside running as they round 

the bend for home ; 
Just a lonely grave and graveyard that are left to 

Nature's care, 
For the wild bush-flowers that brighten it were never 

planted there ; 
No monument or marble that will speak his praise or 

No verse to tell his story and no mark to prove his 




But carved upon the white rail that is weather-worn 

and thin 
Is the simple, rough-hewn legend : He Alwas Rod 

TO Win ! 

Some poor, uncared-for jockey-boy, who never earned 

a name — 
It's the boys who " ride to orders" who can find the 

road to Fame ; 
And the flowers and marble head-stones and the 

wealth of gear and gold 
Are the prizes of the riders who will " stop them" 

when they're told ! 
Just a whisper at the saddling : " He's the only 

danger, Dan, 
That's the boy will try to beat you — stop him, any 

way you can '. " 
Just a crowding at the corner and a crossing in the 

And a plucky little horseman who is " pulling out " 

too late ; 
A heavy fall, a loose horse — and a lightweight carried 

in — , 
A shallow grave, a railing, and : Hk Alwas Rod to 

Win ! 


Some brave, brown-handed comrade who has learned 

the rider's worth 
Has carved those I'ough woi'ds o'er him for the eyes of 

all the earth ; 
And though few may chance to pass him as he lies in 

simple state 
Those few will hold him honoured by the friendship 

of his mate. 
And when, in Life's keen struggle, we shall fight for 

inside place. 
When they crowd us at the corner and we drop from 

out the race, 
When the ringing hoofs go forward and the cheering 

greets the best, 
And the prize is for the winner and the red spurs for 

the rest, 
May we find some true-heart comi-ade, when they've 

filled the last clods in, 
Who will carve these words above us : He Alwas 

Rod to Win ! 


For K.G. or coronet, kingdom or ci'own, 

The boys on Kalaugada cax'e not a rap ; 
But the honour they ask for is galloping down 

The red and white dingo of Brigalow Gap. 
He has beaten us fairly at every exchange ; 

He is hard to keep up with and harder to track ; 
He knows every stone on the Brigalow Range — 

The fastest and wildest and worst of the pack. 
Good horses behind him with rowels we've raked : 

On Began the bushcrows are feasting their fill, 
And Footstep is foundered and Starlight is staked, 

But the red and white dingo makes light of us still. 
For him a fast gallop is nothing but fun — 

Too-cunning to poison, too wary to trap, 
You can't get the sight of a rifle or gun 

On the red and white dingo of Brigalow Gap. 


He has tasted the Lincohis and fancies the breed, 

He has tried the Kalangada culls for a change. 
And we know that he'll never go short of a feed 

As long as our wethers run under the range. 
He's the scourge of the country, the plague of the 

The curse of the owner, the bane of the boss ; 
For he's got to be reckoned with, like it or not. 

When the latter is squaring his profit and loss. 
On the walls of the stable are trophies galore. 

The goal and the guerdon of many a ride ; 
And a place is reserved at the top of the door 

For the honour of holding his red and white 
hide ; 
But the days and the weeks they go merrily by. 

The skins on the stable-wall flutter and flap. 
They have plenty of time to get shrivelled and dry 

While they wait for the dingo at Brigalow Gap. 

There are yellows and brindles and ci'ossbreds of 
The pride of the station, the talk of the town. 
But we'd gladly give all to be out on his track. 

With his stride getting short and the crows coming 


His life may be safe, but, believe me ! for that 

He hasn't Kalangada kindness to thank : 
We tracked him two days ago over the flat, 

We heard him last night at the Marathon tank ; 
And we saw him to-day as he skirted the brush 

A mile from the corner of Halliday's fence. 
We took to him then with a cavalry rush. 

And charged the thick scrub with more spirit than 
sense ; 
For, whenever that devil's limb leads us a dance, 

We gallop to glory, whatever may hap ; 
But down in the gully we got our last glance 

At the red and white dingo of Brigalow Gap. 

He has conquered us fairly, we're bound to confess 
(We claim to be sportsmen, and know when we're 
beat) ; 
His triumph the greater, our credit the less 

That we ride fairly well, and our horses are 
Perhaps, when the days of the dingo are done. 

And the race, barring him, is extinct in the 
When cocky-selectors have swallowed the run, 
And various fortunes have scattered our band ; 


Pei'haps, when with sorrow that scarce can be borne 

He watches the last of his foemen depart ; 
When the sheep-walks are furrowed and planted with 

And the want of a gallop is breaking his heart ; 
When his life is a burden bereft of its joys, 

That old age embitters and sicknesses sap, 
He'll suffer the greybeards that once were " the boys " 

To catch him on foot in the Brigalow Gap ! 


Twenty miles across the ranges there's a patch of 

cane-grass clears 
Half-a-mile of tangled mulga ; hides a score of native 

While the horseman sings a love-song, with no shadow 

of his fate 
Till the stock-horse swerves and plunges from the 

cane-grass swamp — too late ! 
Heavy from his glossy shoulder falls a dead weight to 

the ground, 
And the dark blood splashes upward as the big horse 

makes the bound ; 
With his wld eyes great with terror and his scarlet 

nostrils spread 
Leaps he madly to the mulga from the dark form of 

the dead ; 


Laden with the purple bloodstains, for the words he 

cannot speak, 
Thundei's down the crimson sunset to the homestead 

by the creek ; 
Loudly over range and roadway ring the hoofs their 

notes of doom, 
Straight as arrow to the gateway ... So the 

chestnut horse came home ! 

What's the dustcloud down the plain. Jack 1 Yours 

are younger eyes than mine ; 
Comes too fast for team or buggy, and the coach 

ain't due till nine. 
Harry Olden 1 How he's riding ? Well, we needn't 

wonder, Jack ; 
When a man is newly-married he don't linger on the 

There's his little woman waiting over by the cottage 

door : 
By the Powers of Earth and Heaven ! What the 

smoke's he racing for ? 
I would rather lose a tenner — he must stop this 

blessed game — 
I would rather lose a hundred than he ride old 

Kliyber lame. 


Not a horse upon the river . . . What is that 

you're saying, Jack 1 
Khyber making for the gateway with no rider on his 

back ! 
Bridle bi'oken, breastplate flying, chest and shoulder 

white with foam ! 
Stand away there ! Take the rails down ! . . .So 

the chestnut horse came home ! 

She is standing in the garden, and the gleam of sun- 
set falls 

Through the pepper trees and blue gums on the white- 
washed cottage walls ; 

She is watching thx'ough the sunset till her eyes their 
guerdon meet ; 

In the still air she is listening for the stroke of 
Khyber's feet ; 

Now she whispers, " I can see him ; he is riding fast 
to-night ! " 

Eagerly her heart is beating, and her eyes have Love's 
own light. 

" Khyber's fond of racing homewards ! Dear old 
Harry lets hiin go, 

For he knows that I am waiting ; anxious when the 
sun gets low. 


What's the big crowd at the slip-rails '? Harry's 

coming horae in state ! 
If I run across the garden I shall meet him at the 

gate ! " . . . 

hi the silent awestruck circle, speechless lips and brows 

Not one man the man to tell her how the chestnut horse 

came home ! 


Lead me down to the stockyard, Jim, to the butt of 

the old box-tree ! 
I would like to be there when they're yarding the 

bullocks from Tringadee. 
They were always beggars to rush and ring and rattle 

the gidya spars. 
And gave us our work to get them safe at the back 

of the twelve-foot bars. 

I can hear them crashing the blue grass through, 

away in the river bend, 
And I hear their thousand voices in one splendid 

challenge blend. 
Listen ! the music of stockwhips ! Nearer and nearer 

they come ! 
How I wish I were out in the daylight fetching the 

scrubbers home ! 



Yesterday there has been riding, Jim ! on sandhill 

and ridge and plain, 
From pines into tmsted mulga, from mulga to pines 

again ; 
Galloping over the deadwood, Jim, and dodging the 

swinging boughs ; 
Wheeling the Tringa bullocks and trailing the Tringa 


Yesterday, out on the camp, Jim, there has been 
work, I'll swear! 

Charge to be met with a stockwhip, or maybe a flank 
laid bare ; 

And all last night in the moonlight what drowsing 
and dropping of reins ! 

As they dozed with the tiring cattle over the salt- 
bush plains. 

Now they are close to the yard, Jim ! the leaders are 

steadying : 
Hark ! there's a horseman galloping past to wheel 

them into the wing ! 
That's Mick, by the roar of his stockwhip ; and Wilga 

Boy by his stride ; 
I can almost sft' the foam on his neck and the blood 

on his rowelled side. 


Come a little bit closer, Jim ! you may laugh at a 

blind man's fear ; 
But it's one thing riding old Tempest, another thing 

crouching here. 
I never knew fear on the chestnut, and loved the 

thick of the fight ; 
But somehow it chills the heart of a man, this living 

in endless night. 

That's an outlaw broke from the mob, Jim ! I know 

by his angry roar ; 
And somebody's dropping the whip so quick he hasn't 

got time to gore. 
They've wheeled him back to the others : my God ! if 

I could but see ! 
It is hard to be standing idle when they're yarding 

from Ti'ingadee. 

Their breath is laden with trefoil, and under their 

trampling feet 
At every turn oi the battle the smell of the dust is 

sweet ; 
Odours more dear than these to me the winds can 

never bring. 
Or waft me grander nmsic than the march when cattle 



The last of the mob is yarded, rails up, and the 

stockwhip's dumb ; 
It's cold and the fun is over— we may as well shuflBe 

Give me your arm again, Jim ! a kind mate you must 

To miss, for a blind old cripple, a muster at Txnngadee ' 


The Banks are taking charge, old man .' — 7 knew how it 

ivould be ; 
The flags are flyhuj half-mast high for death of 

Tringadee ; 
The Boss has left ; the boys are spread to all the winds 

— and so 
I think we'd better get the nags and sling the packs and 

go ! 

It's been a dear old home to us, a home we'll not 

forget ; 
And we've been loyal to the brand and would be 

loyal yet ; 
But there is strife among the crew whose captain 

leaves the ship — 
Tlie team won't pull together when a new hand takes 

the whip. 



We've had for Boss the best of men — they know him 
far and wide ; 

From Sydney out to Normanton they speak his name 
with pride ; 

And though we search from now till doom in every 
clime and land, 

We'll never find a truer heart or defter bridle- 

They've got some new-chum manager, and sent him 

up from town 
To spoil the mouth of Myall King and break old 

Yanguard down ; 
The horses that the Boss was proud to steer in scrub 

and plain 
Will never toss the bridle-bars beneath his hand 

They've picked their would-be stockmen from the 

raw, rough Sydney push, 
That never saw a bucking colt or smelt a sandal- 
bush ; 
And when they muster through the scrub for fats in 

They'll have to let the cattle rip and muster up the 



They'll take our places in the hut, the bunks where 

we have lain, 
And smoke in the verandah where we'll never sraoke 

again ; 
They'll take our saddles from their pegs, our bridles 

from the wall. 
And catch our favourite horses — ah ! we'll miss them 

most of all. 
They'll have no banjo music in the station-hut at 

night — 
They'll put the good old songs aside to swear and 

drink and fight ; 
They'll have no merry dancing when the off-camp 

stockmen meet, 
And the old boai'ds creak and rattle to the tramp of 

spur-decked feet. 

There'll be races in the township just the same when 

we're away, 
But they'll miss young Harden's pony and your finish 

on the gray ; 
And when they meet at settling-time, above the din 

and noise 
They'll be listening for our laughter, and they'll miss 

the Tringa boys. 


And when the new-chum Tringa band goes riding 

into town 
To take the place of that old band the Banks have 

broken down, 
The girls will turn their backs on them and never 

smile to greet 
The men who spur our fancy hacks to prance along 

the street. 

The Banks are taking charge, old man '. — I knew hoiv it 

woxdd he ; 
The flags mag fly at lialf-moM high for death of 

2'ringadee ; 
It's another home in ashes, and a name dust-wrapped — 

and so 
We'll run the horses in to-night and sling the packs and 



Ho ! you in the boots and the long-necked spurs, 

You've a nice little hackney there ! 
I rather fancy that bi'and of hers — 

Now, what will you take for the mare 1 
You need not go oflf on too wide a tack — 

I'm hardly in want of a horse ; 
And I'm only pricing your chestnut hack 

For the sake of the brand, of course. 
I don't know where you were born or bred, 

But I'll give you a stranger's hand 
For love of that lean, game, fiery head. 

And the sake of the Tringa brand. 

No, thanks ; I don't fancy exchanges. 

Besides, she's a bit of a screw. 
As old as the Barrier Ranges, 

And shook in the shoulders, too ! 



Now, what is the use of denial 1 

Much better have let things stand — 
No, thank you, I want no trial : 

I'm buying the Tringa brand ! 
I know that she'll carry me fast and far 

In waterless waste or wet, 
For never the T li I and a Bar 

Was burnt on a bad one yet. 

Do I know the brand ? Yes, I think I do ; 

I've carried it, hell-fire hot. 
To the stockyard fence and passed it through 

For many a cleanskin lot ; 
I've heard it hiss on the burning hide, 

And the short, sharp whinny of pain 
As they lifted it off to thrust aside 

Or lay to the lines again. 
Do I know the brand 1 I have watched it streak 

To the front in the mustering days — 
But why do I tell you— you've heard it speak, 

And you know what the old brand says ! 

For ask of the drovers from North of Bourke, 

The Kings of the Overland, 
Which are the horses to stand the work : 

They will tell you— the Tringa brand ! 


Aud question the mailmen in flood-stress met, 

Flogging, down in the mud, 
Which are the pearls when the plains are wet : 

They will tell you — the Tringa blood ! 
And ask the men of the Furthest Back 

What their favourite campers are 
In the whirling dust when the stockwhips crack ; 

And it's T R I and a Bar. 

You can have your price ! — it's a lot too much 

As horses are selling to-day ! 
But a man is a fool and acts as such 

When sentiment shows the way ; 
She's spavined and aged and shoulder-shook, 

Yet I'm not regretting the deal. 
For the old brand shows like an open book 

What nothing else can reveal — 
The far-off life with its witching charms 

And the glamour of sun and star 
In the happy days when our coat-of-arms 

Was T li 1 cmd a Bar ! 


He has toiled in his place since the break of day, 

And the collar has left its gall ; 
When others were faint in the holding clay 
And heavy the burden and steep the way 

He has taken the weight from all. 

Where the sun falls red on the burning plains 

Fx'ora the breast of a quivering sky, 
As a poor reward for his honest pains 
They have loosed the collar and dropped the chains 

And turned him adrift to die. 

Though the brown grass waves by his weary feet, 

Though the river runs at his side, 
He has little desire to drink or eat ; 
And he crawls away in the scorching heat 

With torture at every stride. 


And the waggons pass in the wliirling dust, 

And the ring of the whip is gone, 
And his hope with the human voice is lost, 
And the crows come down in an eager host 

With wings that l)lacken the sun. 

Ere the whip-scored hide has ceased to smart 

Or the aching limbs grown numb, 
Ere pulses slacken and sense depart. 
Ere the hammer stops in the broken heart 

And sobs in the throat are dumb, 

Will his thoughts return to the pastures green, 

Of the bygone hours of ease"? — 
To a golden noon in a summer sheen, 
To a river laughing its banks between. 

And the shadow of blackwood trees ? — ■ 

To the mouthfuls of dewy gi-ass, the rolls 

On the petals of painted flowers 1 — 
To the races run with his comi'ade foals. 
With straggling starts and indefinite goals. 

To shorten the idle hours ? 

Will he cherish the memory, even now 

Of the touch of a loving hand 
Tliat ribboned the lock on his open brow 
And fondled the neck that was proud to bow 

With a rose in the forehead-band ] 


Will he yearn one moment to catch the tone 
Of the voice he loved long since 1 — 

" I never lift whip to my gallant roan ; 

He works for the voice and the voice alone ; 
And he draws till he drops, old Prince ! " 

" I ill hi' drops /'' —the shadaws m-e 'latheriiig fast 

I o CIO tain hit bal on the plain, 
And out rif the darkness void nnd vast 
The carrion hinh to their Joiil repast 

Are Jiying in endless train. 


He was born in the light of red oaths 

And nursed by the drought and the flood, 
And swaddled in sweat-lined saddle-cloths 

And christened in spur-drawn blood ; 
He never was burdened with learning, 

And many would think him a fool, 
But he's mastered a method of " turning " 

That never was taught in a school. 
His manners are rugged and vulgar, 

But he's nuggets of gold in our need, 
And a lightning flash in the mulga 

Is the Man who Steadies the Lead ! 

When the stockwhips are ringing behind him 
And the brumbies are racing abreast. 

It's fifty to one you will find him 
A furlong or two from the rest 



With the coils of his whip hanging idle, 

His eyes on the mob at his side, 
And the daintiest touch on the bi'idle — 

For this is the man who can ride ! 
And the stallions that break for the mallee 

Will find he has courage and speed, 
For he rides the best horse in the valley — 

This stockman that steadies the lead. 

When they're fetching in " stores" to the station 

Through tangles of broken belar, 
And the road is a rough calculation 

That's based on the blaze of a star ; 
When they're quickening through sand-ridge and 

And rowels are spattered with red, 
And sometimes you've only to follow 

The sound of the hoof-beat ahead ; 
Then we know that he's holding them nor' ward — 

We trust in the man and his steed, 
As we hear the old brown crashing forward 

And his rider's " Wo up ! " to the lead. 

And iigain in a journey that's longer. 

In a different phase of the game, 
Dropping down the long trail to Wodonga 

With a thousand or so of the same ; 


When the blue grass is over our rollers, 

And each one contentedly rides, 
And even the worst of the crawlers 

Are stuffing green grass in their hides ; 
He is ready to spread them or ring them 

Or steady them back on the feed, 
And he knows when to stop them or string them 

The stockman that rides in the lead. 

But when from the bend in the river 

The cattle break camp in the night — 
Oh, then is the season, if ever, 

We value his service aright ! 
For we know that if some should be tardy. 

And some should be left in the race. 
Yet the spurs will be red on " Coolgardie " 

As Someone swings out to his place. 
The mulga boughs — hark to them breaking 

In front of the maddened stampede ! 
A horse and a rider are taking 

Their time-honored place in the lead ! 

As an honest, impartial I'ecorder 

I'd fain have you all recollect 
There are other brave men on the Border 

Entitled to every respect ; 


There's the man that thinks bucking a tame thing, 

And rides 'em with lighted cigars ; 
And the man who will drive any blamed thing 

That ever was hooked to the bars . . . 
Their pluck and their prowess are granted, 

But all said and done, we're agreed 
That the king of 'em all when he's wanted 

Is the Man who Steadies the Lead ! 


The flood was down in the Wilga swamps, three feet 

over the mud, 
And the teamsters camped on the Wilga range and 

swoi'e at the rising flood ; 
For one by one they had tried tlie trip, double and 

treble teams. 
And one after one each desert-ship had dropped to 

her axle-beams ; 
So they thonged their leaders and pulled them round 

to the camp on the sandhill's crown, 
And swore by the bond of a blood-red oath to wait 

till the floods went down. 

There were side-rail tubs and table-tops, coaches and 

Brown with the Barcoo Wonders, and Speed with 

the dapple grays 


Who pulled the front of his waggon out and left the 
rest in the mud 

At the Cuttaburra crossing in the grip of the Ninety- 

There was Burt with his sixteen bullocks, and never 
a bullock to shirk, 

Who twice came over the Border line with twelve- 
ton-ten to Bourke ; 

There was Long Dick damning an agent's eyes for 
his ton of extra weight, 

And Whistling Jim, for Cobb and Co., cursing that 
mails were late ; 

And one blasphemed at a broken chain and howled 
for a blacksmith's blood, 

And most of them cursed their crimson luck, and all 
of them cursed the flood. 

The last of the baffled had struggled back and the sun 

was low in the sky, 
And the first of the stars was creeping out when 

Dai'eaway Dan came by. 
There's never a teamster draws to Bourke but has 

taken the help of Dan ; 
There's never a team on the Great North Road can 

lift as the big roans can : 


Broad-hipped beauties that nothing can stop, leaders 

that swing to a cough ; 
Eight blue-roans on the near side yoked, and eight 

red-roans on the oif. 
And Long Dick called from his pine-rail bunk : 

" Where are you bound so quick '? " 
And Dareaway Dan spoke low to the roans, and 

aloud, " To the Swagman's, Dick ! " 
" There's five good miles," said the giant, " lie to the 

front of you, holding mud ; 
If you never were stopped before, old man, you are 

stopped by the Wilga flood. 
The dark will be down in an hour or so, there isn't 

the ghost of a moon ; 
So leave your nags in the station grass instead of the 

long lagoon ! " 

But Dan stood up to the leader's head and fondled 

the big brown nose : 
" There's many a mile in the roan team yet before 

they are feed for the crows ; 
Now listen, Dick-with-the-woman's-heart, a word to 

you and the rest : 
I've sixteen horses collared and chained, the pick of 

the whole wide West, 


And 111 cut their throats and leave them here to rot 

if they haven't the power 
To carry nie through the gates of Hell — with seventy 

bags of flour ! 
The light of the stars is light enough ; they have 

nothing to do but plow/li ! 
There's never a swamp has held them yet, and a 

swamp won't stop them now. 
They're waiting for flour at the Swagman's Bend ; I'll 

steer for the lifting light ; 
There's nothing to fear with a team like mine, and — 

I camp in the bend to-night ! " 

So they stood aside and they watched them pass in 

the glow of the sinking sun, 
With straining muscles and tightened chains — 

sixteen pulling like one ; 
"With jingling harness and droning wheels and bare 

hoofs' rhythmic tramp. 
With creaking timbers and lurching load the Fire 

Queen faced the swamp ! 
She dipped her red shafts low in the slush as a 

spoonbill dips her beak, 
The black mud clung to the wheels and fell in the 

wash of the Wilga creek ; 


Aud the big roans fought for footing, and the 

spreaders threshed like flails, 
And the great wheels lifted the muddy spume to the 

bend of the red float-rails ; 
And they cheered him out to the westward with the 

last of the failing light 
And the splashing hoofs and the driver's voice died 

softly away in the night ; 
But some of them prate of a shadowy form that guided 

the leader's reins, 
And some of them speak of a shod black horse that 

pulled in the off-side chains — 
How eveiy time that he lifted his feet the waggon 

would groan aud swing. 
And every time that he dropped his head you could 

hear the tug-chains ring ! 

And Dan to the Swagman's Bend came through mud- 
spattered from foot to head. 

And they couldn't tell which of the roans were blue 
and which of the roans were red. 

Now this is the tale as I heard it told, and many 
believe it true 

When the teamsters say in their ofi'-hand way — 
" 'Twas the Devil that pulled him through ! " 


When the gear is on the horses aud the knotted 

trace-chains hooked ; 
When the last bale's on the waggon and the ropes 

are twitched and tied ; 
When the brakes are off the big wheels and the way- 
bills safely booked, 
You can see the old gray leader with his wise head 
turned aside. 
Does a memory come o'er him 
Of the long stiff road befoi-e him, 
With the lead-chains never slackened as he holds his 
team to work. 
Through the box-flats and the gidyas, 
Ninety miles of plain and ridges. 
To the white-railed Darling bridges aud the silver 
roofs of Bourke ? 



Just a whisper from his master aud he leans upon 

the weight, 
Aud the twenty browns behind him touch the collar 

when he moves, 
Then the whip rings out a warning, and the under- 
carriage grates, 
And they bend their backs and lift her from the 
well-worn loading grooves. 
So they open up the tourney, 
And she starts her long, rough journey 
Over ninety miles of noonday and the e^'enings in 
And the station-gates have freed her, 
With the station men to speed her. 
And it's " Buckle down my leader, on the road you've 
often been ! " 

Now the red dust curls behind her, and the red dust 

rolls before, 
And from shafter up to leader they are sweat from 

head to hip. 
And the good ones take the collar and the bad ones 

baulk and bore, 
But the gray hoi'se strains the harder e\ery time he 

hears the whip ; 


So, by lash and lurid order, 
They will swing her through the Border, 
With the dust upon her loading making extra weight 
to pull, 
And the drunken township loafer 
Staggers blindly from his sofa 
Just to see the first team over with the Thurulgoona 

O, the camping by the river when the sun is riding 

low ! 
O, the shifting of the collars and the dropping of the 

chains ! 
And the music of the big bells, as they let the horses 

To their drinking in the river and their feeding on 
the plains ! 
So, from camp to camp-fire, daily, 
They will battle through Belalie, 
Till they leave the {)lains behind them and the river 
at their back. 
Where the stony hills are showing- 
There is panting now, and blowing, 
But the gray horse keeps them going with the chains 
that never slack. 


So the toe-clips cut the roadway where a thousand 

hoofs have trod, 
While above the gold sun glistens and to West the 

red sun flames 
To the creaking of the waggon and the lurching of the 

And the grinding of the tug-chains in the hooks upon 
the hames ; 
And the leader's heart thumps loudly, 
But he bends his old neck proudly 
As he swings them through the bridges, sticking 
staunchly to his work ; 
And I wish the gray could hear him 
When a stranger says, " I'd spare him, 
For there's not a horse comes near him in the teams 
that draw to Bourke ! " 

O, it's grand to bring the largest loads from Thurul- 

goona side ! 
And it's grand to have a leader that the smallest child 

knows well ; 
But, if you love an honest horse, when next the ropes 

are tied 
You'll leave him in the bluegrass, for the gray has 

earned a spell. 


He has bonie the brunt of battle ; 
He has led your lagging cattle 
With the red galls on his shoulder, yet he never 
shirked a start ; 
And 'twere better you should brain him 
Ere you burst him up and strain him, 
For, just think, each trip you chain him helps to break a 
tvilling heart ! 


Down, the long dream-lanes 
At the dead of night, 
With gray mists over and mists below, 
With loose-held reins 
On their horses white 
I watch whei-e the silent riders go. 

With their heads bent low 
And a hoof-stroke dumb 
They never turn to the left or right. 
And the shadows go 
And the shadows come 
But the silent squadron is deadly white. 

Should a bit-bar play 
Or a saddle creak 
It would free the blood of an icy fear, 
If a horse should neigh 
Or a rider speak 
It would lighten the load of my heart to hear. 


But the troop i-ides on 
With a measured pace 
And touching stirrups that make no sound, 
And the stars have shone 
On a comrade's face 
That is twelve long years in the graveyard ground. 

Here are the ends 

Of the parted ways — 
The long Dead March of the years to be ; 
And these are the friends 
Of the olden days 
Taking their last ride silently. 

There's an empty space — 
They keep my place 
In their ghostly ranks ; and I catch my breath ! 
Yet hand to the rein 
There are better men 
Riding to-night with the Steeds of Death. 


Long years ago — no matter now how long — one fierce 

I was travelling, weak and footsore, on a river road 
Out Back ; 

I was sick at heart and weary of the world, and I 

How my tucker-bags were empty on that long- 
starvation track. 

Oh, the world is wide and bitter to the outcast and 
the friendless ! 

But you never know how bitter or how friendless it 
can be 

Till you see the big scrubs stretching to the west- 
ward, black and endless. 

And the sun-glare and the sand-drift on the silent 
saltbush sea. 



Where among the river timber flashed a silver roof 

beside me 
I turned from off the treadmill track that leads but 

to the grave : 
I would face the world's last welcome were it offered 

or denied me : 
They could take me in or scorn me — 'twas a life to 

lose or save. 

There wei'e hands held out to meet me, there were 

pitying words and kindly, 
As they bore beyond the threshold, through the roses, 

my poor weight ; 
And the fever fought them daily, and I lay for long 

weeks blindly 
Waging war against her sword-blades and the banded 

squares of Fate. 

Then I woke on New Year's morning to the life that 

had grown dearer, 
And the brown tide whipped the gum-trees and the 

grass was waving green ; 
And the world was not so hai-sh, it seemed, to one 

pale, friendless shearer, 
For I saw glad faces round me, with the sunlight in 



And a strong man, gray and rugged, and a white- 
haired gentle mother, 

And a daughter, sweetly beautiful, brown-eyed and 

Clasped hands and prayed in thankfulness, soft-voiced 
with one another, 

For the stranger in their household whom the 
chastening Lord had spared. 

Now the world is wild and wilful out beyond the 

Darling timber, 
And the further to the sunset is the nearer Hell, they 

Is it wonder, then, I cherish in my heart and aye 

Those who nursed me through the fever as I saw 

them kneel and pray ? 

When twice the floods had mustered from the creeks 

above the Border, 
When twice the plains had blistered in the furnace of 

the drought, 
When twice the laughing Spring had come and gone 

in flowery order. 
When the grass was green and waving, and the latest 

sheds cut out ; 


Then I sought the white-roofed homestead by the 

river, lightly laden 
With a few small gifts as tokens of remembrance. 

It was late 
When the old folk came to greet me, and I missed 

the brown-eyed maiden 
When they crossed the rose-grown threshold and the 

pathway to the gate. 

And the old man, worn and aged, had the lines of 
cai'e and sorrow 

Traced deeply on his forehead, aiid but few the words 
he said ; 

And I saw the bitter burden of a weeping, morn to- 

In the sad eyes of the woman as she raised her 
drooping head. 

When the stars were lit and burning, and the crickets 

softly singing. 
Then he led me to the garden, and he spoke in accents 

strange : 
And his eyes would wander vaguely, but his voice 

had passion's ringing 
That had lost its gentle tuning, and I wondered at 

the change. 


So he fashioned his sad story : " When the last year's 

flood was Hfting, 
And the dawn of every morning showed a rising of 

the creek, 
When we saw the wreck of homesteads daily past our 

doorstep drifting — 
Oh, the Lord is fierce and cruel ! " and dark anger 

flushed his cheek — 

" I was rowing up the river in the old boat, searching 

For the few poor sheep God left me " — and his face 

gi*ew dark again — 
" I could hear a ' cooee' ringing down the water, loud 

and plainly. 
And I thanked the Lord who sent me ; I believed in 

such things then. 

" And I saw a man's form clinging to a branching 

gum that gave him 
Rest a moment, worn with waiting, cramped and 

numb with cold and fear. 
And I called across the water, and I prayed God I 

might save him, 
But I wish these hands had drowned him ere I 

brought the hell fiend here ! 


" He was weak and starved with hunger, and we 

nursed him — was it wonder 1 
And we thanked the Lord in Heaven who had granted 

us this part : 
Hell's curses on him ! Pardon me he rent my 

home asunder ; 
He wrought my daughter's ruin, and he broke her 

mother's heart. 

" He was tall, and straight, and handsome, with the 

soft ways of the city. 
And he spoke of home and mother — what words were 

these for him 1 
He sang psalms and read his Bible — and we liked 

him — more's the pity ! 
And we almost got to love him when he said he knew 

our Jim. 

" Our Jim, the blue-eyed giant, Mary's brother ; he 

would ply her 
With his tales of Jim and shearing, where his wild 

life first began : 
How Jim and he were comrades. But the low cur 

was a liar ; 
Our Jim was never mate of his — Jim's honest, and a 

man ! 


" Well, we learned to like the stranger, and our eyes 
were blinded fairly, 

And we nursed the viper warmly who would bite us 
to the bone, 

And our eyes were rudely opened when one spring- 
tide morning early 

We woke to find the scoundrel and our fastest stock- 
horse gone. 

" Six hours before I saddled he was racing down the 

river ; 
But I took the girl's roan-chestnut that is faster than 

the wind ; 
No fleet-winged terror fleeter than the fiend before 

me — never 
Fierce wrath one-half so bitter as the man wlio rode 

behind ! 

" Across the hill I tracked him, to the river bank and 

And there the cur had doubled back to save his 

wretched hide ; 
The watching sun had never waked to see so base a 

The frightened stars had never paled to see such 

vengeance ride ! 


" So I ran the tracks out west to where the Red 
Spring road runs nor' ward, 

Though the hardness of the surface made it dainty 
work to do ; 

I can track, lad, like a nigger, and I raced the 
chestnut forward. 

For there's not a road could bluff me off old Stock- 
whip's broken shoe ! 

" I galloped over cane-grass swamps, now madly, now 

more slowly ; 
I raced across the sandhills with dark murder in my 

And with the miles the fierce thoughts grew — the red 

resolves unholy : 
There's time for him to harbour these who gives a 

six-hour start ! 

" The sun was noon-high in the gums when, at the 

Red Spring crossing, 
I saw the coward crouching by a dead tree on the 

I reined the horse and steadied him, and past his 

game head's tossing 
Took aim that asks for vengeance, but wins not 

honour back. 


" I halted but a moment ; in that moment passed 

before me 
The vision of his white face and his trembling, lifted 

hands : 
He prayed to me for mercy ; then the bitter wrath 

came o'er me : 
' He gave my girl no mercy, and I'll shoot him where he 

stands /' 

" Then a voice came whisp'ring softly, 'Mine is ven- 
geance, so the Lord said . . .' 

But the madness held me fettered, and I cursed Him 
at the ford. 

And I shouted to the blue skies, ' For a God or devil's 
word said 

Shall I lose my just avenging? Mine's the vengeance ; 
d n the Lord ! ' 

"Then I felt the chestnut tremble, and he reeled and 

fell beneath me, 
And I knew no more that happened till I wakened in 

the night, 
And all the stars of heaven seemed to cluster and 

enwreath me. 
And the cold mnd kissed my forehead — and the man 

was gone from sight. 


" And we left our poor girl sleeping by the mulga 

trees down yonder, 
And the parson said ' The Lord's will ! ' as he stood 

beside her grave . . . 
And every word is true, lad. Tell me straight, now, 

do you wonder 
If I curse this Lord they speak of, who will neither 

slay nor save 1 " 


A BROKEN bridle trailing, 

A saddle scratched and scarred — 
And Brown Bee at the railing 

That rings the station yard ; 
No stockman sits astride her, 

But, by those flanks afoam, 
Wild Terror was the rider 

That lashed the good mare home ! 

She snorts across the moonlight 

Through nostrils red and wide 
The challenge of the unbacked colt 

To those who dare to ride ; 
She snorts across the moonlight 

Through nostrils wide and red 
The terror of a dumb beast 

That has looked upon the dead . . 


His saddle and his bridle 

We've softly laid aside, 
We'll leave the rough gear idle 

Till he comes hack to ride ; — 
Our eyes are to the ranges, 

And when the dawning pales 
The hrown mare stands and whinnies 

With her lean head on the rails. 


We are heathen ivho worship an idol 
We keep for our pleasicre and pride, 

We are slaves of the saddle and bridle, 
Yet kings of the earth when we ride '. 

It is over the clinging meadows 
And the hedges thick and tall, 

Where the frost still lies in the shadows 
And the boldest ride for a fall ; 

It is over the stretching upland 

Where the breeze is fresh from the sea, 

And veiled in spray is the stag at bay- 
That battles on bended knee. 

It is down by the white-flagged courses 

In the shimmer of silken winsrs. 
Where the thunder of galloping horses 

The blood to the pulses brings : 



When your mount goes free to his fences 

And leans to your gentle hold, 
And the plaudits loud of the cheering crowd 

Are better than gifts of gold. 

It is here, in the southward, under 

The rays of a sun that fall 
Where the stockwhip's gathering thunder 

Is music sweetest of all : 
Where the " scrubbers " under the dust-clouds 

Are challenged, and caught, and passed. 
Though flanks may bleed ere we wheel the lead 

At the wings of the yard at last. 

We are heathen ivho worship an idol 
We keep for our honour and pride ; 

We are slaves of the saddle and Iridle, 
Yet kings of the earth when vje ride / 


Eyes ^vild with fear unspoken, 

Tossed manes and sweeping tails, 
Our thirty head unbroken 

Are safe behind the rails ; 
Hard won from stony ridges 

And waving blue-grass plains 
By ga-shes from the gidyas, 

Red spurs and foamy reins ! 

We woke ^^^th stars a-cluster 

And rode ^\dth breaking day, 
We've made a right good muster 

With not one colt away ; 
Oh, loth they were at leaving ! 

And twice they broke for home ; 
And Blue Light's flanks are heaving, 

And Brownlocks' white with foam. 


By Snowdon's son — Gray River — 

The best blood in the land ! 
No finer draft has ever 

Upheld the station brand; 
They'll get no chance of hiding, 

Fenced in the Mile-by-Mile ; 
We won them by hard riding, 

We'll hold them now by guile. 

The bay colt's there from Blossom : 

By Jove, the beggar's grown ! 
The steel-gray out of Possum — 

The best the old mare's thrown ! 
And here's the brown from Lo-lo — 

The beggar ought to race ; 
What price that chap for polo 

With the white streak down the face? 

That big chap by the cedar, 

Full brother to The Gleam, 
We'll mouth him for a leader 

In the boss's slashing team ; 
Those browns across the corner 

Will make a ripping pair ; 
That chestnut out of Lorna 

Takes his kicking from the mare. 


Jump down there ! — what a scatter ! 

Get out the ropes and gear ; 
We have never broken better 

Than the colts we'll break this year ; 
Look out the bits and rollers, 

The halters and the rest — 
This year they'll know our colours 

On the township tracks Out West ! 


Come and look around my office — 
Floors are littered, walls are hung 

With the treasures and the trophies 
Of the days when I was young ; 

Rusty spur and snaffle idle, 

Polo stick and gun and bridle, 
In a sweet confusion flung. 

There's my saddle when a rover — 
(That's the bridle hanging up) 

Queensland-built — a Lachlan drover 
Swopped me for a Kelpie pup. 

By the Lord, it makes one ponder 

When one thinks those spurs up yonder 
Helped to win the Mulga Cup ! 


There's the bar I used on "Wyndham 
On the day you watched him " clear " 

With the four in-hand behind him — 
Yet they'll say it's too severe. 

See that bunch of faded ribbon ? 

It belongs to Jock McKibbon, 
But he always leaves it here. 

And there's just a little story 
Hanging to that bunch of blue ; 

I'm not claiming any glory 

AVhen I spin the yarn to you — 

Yarns go best when pipes are glowing ; 

Here's the " Capstan " ; set her going— 
And remember this is true. 

Pearl of price for hunter's duty 

Was the gray mare Heart's Desire, 

With the Snowdon's strength and beauty 
And a dash of Panic fire ; 

And I never knew her failine: 

At a dyke, a ditch, or paling — 

She could jump her height and higher. 


Now, the rider courted throwing 

Who would touch her with the spurs 

When the Snowdon mare got going 
With that sweeping stride of hers ; 

She was restless, hot, and heady ; 

She had smashed one man already, 
And the fright had made her worse. 

But her owner, nothing fearing, 
Brave as ever man could he. 

Saw the yearly Show was nearing 
While he nursed a crippled knee ; 

So he called me, did McKibbon : 

" We've a mortgage on the ribbon — 
Will you ride the mare for me 1 " 

They had sent their speedy sprinters 
Round the fences, one by one, 

And the air was thick with splinters 
Till you couldn't see the sun ; 

Such a striking, swerving, baulking ! 

Saddles empty, riders walking ! 
Not a round was cleanly done. 


And the gray mare, Heart's Desire, 

Stood and watched and seemed to know ; 

Fretted when they galloped by her, 
Tossed her lean head to and fro ; 

Then they called to me, " Get ready ! " 

And McKibbon whispered, "Steady . . ! ' 
But the crowd yelled, " Let her go ! !" 

Now, beyond the" five-foot palings, 

As I set the mare a-swing. 
From below the grand-stand railings 

Someone's child crept in the ring, 
And we never saw the youngster 
Till the mare was right against her 

Shortening stride to make the spring 

So I loosed her head and drove her 
With the red spurs ripping wild ; 

It was take the lot — and over — 
Or God help the tiny child ! 

And I watched as though in dreaming 

Where the snow-white dress was gleaming. 
And the babe looked up and smiled ! 


But I knew the mare I rode on — 

Could a leap be found too far 
For the quarters of old Snowdon 

And the heart of Blazing Star 1 
Here she had the chance to show me — 
And the shod-hoofs flashed below me, 

Half a yard above the bar ! 

Then the dust- clouds ! Had we cleared her ? 

Then the light shock as we land, 
Then — the crowd stood up and cheered her 

On the ring fence and the stand ; 
But my brain was sick and spinning 
And I slung my chance of winning 

As I took the mare in hand. 

But they ciowded round to hold her, 
And they tied the badge of blue 

In a knot upon her shoulder 
That they dared me to undo ! 

So I left the prize upon her, 

And I think she won the honour 
When she saved the lives of two. 


And I journey Life's gay road on, 

But I linger when I pass 
Where the best and gamest Snowdon 

Takes her last sleep in the grass 
With the wattle-boughs above her ; 
And when others toast a lover 

Then I pledge her in my glass. 

Now, they reckon me a rider 
In the showyard and the shire. 

But I never faced a wider 
Jump, a tougher or a higher 

Since I rode for Jock McKibbon 

On the day we won the ribbon 

With the gray mare Heai't's Desire. 


Some take no heed of any future day 

But kiss Time's hand while wearing yet his bonds, 
Dreaming their yotmg full-blooded life away 

Among Lifers lotus-ponds. 

And some there are who gird them, shield and sword, 
War dawn and noon, fyJit the red sunset down 

To fall when night falls, vnth the same reward 
Death's dark-hued cypress croivn. 

Ah ! when Death's hand our own warm hand hath taen 
Down the dark aisles his sceptre rules stipreme, 

God grant the fig liters leave to fight again 
And let the dreamers dream ! 


Down ! And the world's war-squadron splashes 

Past, loose-i^eined, iu the blood and the mire ; 
Brown arms sweep and the bared steel Hashes 

On to the goal of the World's desire. 
Down ! By the war-steed's hot hoofs cowering, 

Broken the sword arm, bent the sword, 
And away to the front leap the sabres showering 

Blows for the Hell-hearth, blows for the Lord ! 

Did he clutch at the moon for jewel 

To bind on his bosom and wear 1 
Did he fight with a Fate too cruel 

Or follow a face too fair ? 
What does it matter the reason why ! 

He is down ; and it's little the world will care 
As it sweeps in a foam-fret by. 


152 HA BET ! 

Down ! Weeps the moon, and he never wore ifc. 

Down ! And the stars mourn into the mist. 
Fate's red weal is across his forehead ; 

Somebody's face has never been kissed ! 
Flushes the dawn, and one vulture-speck 

Spires and spins in a reeling sky ; — 
Down ! And it's little the World will reck 

As it rides red-rowelled by. 


A Poet stood in the red day-dawn, 

And the dawn was more to his gifted eyes 
Than a songbird's call and a flush on the lawn 

When the night winds drop and the last star dies ; 
For he saw the Goddess of all sweet sons 

Clothed in a vesture of infinite light, 
He heard the challenge of Right to Wrong, 

The trumpet blast of the world-old fight. 

A Painter stood in the golden noon, 

And to him the world was something more 
Than a sea of light in a slumbrous swoon 

On the golden sands of a splendid shore , 
For out and beyond the gold and gray, 

The silver cloud and the sweep of blue. 
He could see the bright lights quiver and play — 

The wonder of Italy, known and new. 



A Lover watched in the evening light, 

And the world was something greater to him 
Than a day-death grand and a sunset bright, 

A sweeping of shadows, a twilight dim ; 
For he saw far over the drifting years 

A maiden form in the sunset stand, 
And his gx*ay eyes filled with a mist of tears 

For the soft white sake of an unclasped hand. 

And so for the wide world never in vain 

Blossoms a day-dawn, a noon, or a night. 
For somewhere out farther than these again 

There reddens the gleam of a Hope-born light ; 
And the meanest man on the round world's rim — 

Poet or Painter though never he be — 
Has seen for a moment with eyes grown dim 

The light that was nevei' on land or sea ! 


There's a whisper from the regions out beyond the 

Barwon banks ; 
There's a gathering of the legions and a forming of 

the ranks ; 
There's a murmur coming nearer with the signs that 

never fail, 
And it's time for every shearer to be out upon the 

They must leave their girls behind them and their 

empty glasses, too, 
For there's plenty left to mind them when they cross 

the dry Barcoo : 
There'll be kissing, there'll be sorrow such as only 

sweethearts know, 
But before the noon to-morrow they'll be singing as 

they go — 


For the Western creeks are calling 
And the idle days are done, 
With the snowy fleeces falling 
And the Queensland sheds begun ! 

There is shortening of the bridle, there is tightening 

of the girth, 
There is fondling of the idol that they love the best 

on earth ; 
Northward from the Lachlan River and the sun-dried 

Outward to the Never-Never ride the ringers on their 

From the green bends of the Murray they have run 

their horses in. 
For there's haste and there is hurry when the Queens 

land sheds begin ; 
On the Bogan they are bridling, they are saddling on 

the Bland, 
There is plunging and there's sidling— for the colts 

don't understand 

That the Western creeks are calling, 

And the idle days are done, 
With the snowy fleeces falling 
And the Queensland sheds begun I 


They will camp below the station, they'll be cutting 

peg and pole 
Rearing tents for occupation till the calling of the 

roll ; 
And it's time the nags were driven, and it's time to 

strap the pack, 
For there's never license given to the laggards on the 

Hark the music of the battle ! it is time to bare our 

swords : 
Do you hear the rush and rattle as they tramp along 

the boards ? 
They are past the pendoors picking light-woolled 

weaners one by one ; 
I can hear the shear-blades clicking, and I know the 

fight's begun ! 


Grey-Lying miles to the norVai'd of NorVard, 
Red-leaping leagues to the westward of West, 
Further than keenest of sight follows forward, 
Further than boldest of hearts ever guessed ; 
Still ^vith its secret to Man unimparted. 
Still with its beckoning wealth unattained. 
Lies the dim goal that has Never been Charted, 
Down the long Road that has Never been Chained. 

Day after day, and from morrow to morrow. 
Pointing the way where the wide road begins, 
Sweep the red scorpion -scourges of Sorrow, 
Lashing her children out West for their sins ; 
Beefwood and whitewood, and redgum and wilga, 
Lead them and goad them, and guide them and 

Till hidden in tangle of sandal and mulga. 
The gates to the East and the Southward are barred. 



Westward and Nor'ward ! and fainter behind them 

The roll of the waggons, the roar of the whips, 

The towering red dust-storms that waltz down and 

wind them, 
The blue mocking mirage that rise to their lips ; 
Beyond the last camp of the furthest-west drover, 
Beyond the last team-track, the last rotting steer, 
Beyond the last foot-pad the camels crossed over. 
Beyond the lone grave of the last pioneer. 

Westward and Westward ! Out past the last horror 
Of thirst and starvation, of lorn lives and lost. 
The bleaching white bones of the boldest explorer, 
The scrubs and the plains that have never been 

crossed, — 
Where the heat haze no lunger in mockery dances, 
Where no more the sand-drift whirls brown on the blue, 
AVhere the pitying Sun lays at rest his red lances. 
With white flags of truce where his war banner flew. 

The last birds have waked them — they sleep now no 

longer ! 
The last dark has lifted — they take no more rest ! 
For the aching feet heal and the tired heart grov/s 

As every league bears them a league to the West. 


Gold ! Did they hear her sweet voice as they started 1 
Now she is dumb to them, scorned and disdained, 
And their goal is a Goal that has Never been Charted ; 
Their route is a Road that has Never been Chained. 

Westward and — Homeward ! Brown hands at the 

back of them ; 
Far in the distance white hands — and the rest ; 
One by one, outward, we lose the last track of them, 
All the world wending its way to the West ; 
One after one, till the last shall have started, 
Yet no more the last than the first shall have gained 
In the lore of the Goal that has Never been Charted, 
Down the long Road that has Never been Chained. 


Where the mulga paddocks are wild and wide, 
That's where the pick of the stockmen ride — - 

At the Back o' Bvurke ! 
Under the dust-clouds dense and brown, 
Moving Southward by tank and town. 
That's where the Queensland mobs come down — 

Out at t/ie Back o' Boicrke ! 

Over the Border to and fro, 

That's where the footsore swagmen go — 

At the Back o' Boiirke ! 
Sick and tired of the endless strife. 
Nursing the bones of a wasted life 
Where all the sorrows of Earth are x'ife — 

Out at the Back o' Bourke ! 

K 161 


Whether the plains are deep or dry, 
That's where the struggHng teams go by — 

At the Back o' Bourke 1 
North and Southward, in twos and threes, 
Bullocks and horses down to the knees, 
Waggons dipped to the axle-trees — 

OiU at the Back o' Bourke ! 

That's the land of the lying light 

And the cruel mirage dancing bright — 

At the Back o' Bourke ! 
That's where the shambling camel train 
Crosses the Western ridge and plain, 
Loading the Paroo clips again 

Out at the Back o' Bourke .' 

That's the land of the wildest nights. 
The longest sprees and the fiercest fights — 

At the Back a' Bourke ! 
That's where the skies are brightest blue. 
That's where the heaviest work's to do, 
That's where the fires of Hell burn through - 

Out at the Back o' Bourke ! 


That's where the wildest floods have birth 
Out of the nakedest ends of Earth — 

At the Back o' Bonrhe ! 
Where the poor men lend and the rich ones borrow ; 
It's the bitterest land of sweat and sorrow — 
But if I were free J'd he off to-murrow, 

Out at the Back o' Bourkc ! 


Let others chant of battle and such wreaths as Glory 

I would rather sing the praises of the dew that 

dips the daisies, 
Of the wind that stirs the wattle and the foam that 

flecks the wave. 

When others sing the Nation and the Flag that 

sweeps the seas, 
Let them leave me to deliver the old message of the 

And the true interpretation of the wind's voice in the 


For when the drums are calling men to Honour and 

Turning in their dreamy slumbers they are swayed 

by softer numbers, 
Music of a dewdrop falling or a dead leaf drifting 




And when the battle rages and the grey smoke dims 

the skies, 
There's a Voice that makes them listen till the 

gathering teardrops glisten 
And the Love that lit the ages brings the roselight to 

their eyes. 


Here is roarivg Jlood in WinUr 

When the slorm-Jlag flies, 
And the quick-fire ligJUnings splinter 

Gold from night-hlack skies, 
And the rain-clouds gather, breaking 
Close upon the box-tree s^haking 
Like a lost soul shivering, quaking 

With a fear that never dies. 

Here is sandy loaste in Summer 
Where the Drought has lain, 
Stifling hope for every comer 
From the hell-hot plain ; 
When the footsore cattle quicken 
At the sceut ivhere last drops thicken. 
Turning hack to faint and sicken 
In the dust-dry grass again. 



Where the river bends to Nor'ward, 

With the dark floods done, 
And the Spring flower's flaunting forward 

In the first Spring sun, — 
Where the angry Winter torrent 
Laden with some tree's death-warrant 
Left the brown stem 'thwai't the current 

In the dead-branch arms lay One 

Cold and still, without a motion 

Save that in the tide 
Rocked he as a wreck in ocean 

Rocks from side to side ; 
Silent as the trunk above him. 
Resting where the ripples drove him 
In the bed the flood-wash wove him, 

With a naked bough for bride. 

Halts the brown hawk for a moment 

At the corpse's head, 
Shakes the pearl drops from his raiment, 

Heedless of the dead ; 
Down the river westward winging. 
Pinions broad to sunbeams flinging. 
Gone ! . . . the birds take up their singing 

Where they left the song unsaid. 


Stoops the snowy crane to listen 

On the sombre tree, 
And her drooping feathers glisten 

White as white can be ; 
Down the wind the wild fowl streaming 
Catch a glimpse of whiter gleaming, 
Wheel aside with frightened screaming 

From the horror that they see. 

Life and Death, the dead and living !— 

None the woe to speak ; 
And the sun drops westward giving 

Bloodstains to the creek ; 
And the sun-fires gleam and glower 
As the life-fires leap and lower. 
And the river runs no slower 

Though a waiting heart should break ! 


West of the World all red suns sleep 
On a fleecy carpet of crimson cloud, 
And the weary winds from the eastward creep 
To their shining goal on the western steep 
In the golden arms of the starry crowd- 
West of the World ! 

West of the World all true hearts ride 

To a further bourne than the best have trod, 
Till they cross the last creek gleaming wide 
And wave their hands from the last divide 
Ere they drop their load at the feet of God - 
AVest of the World ! 

West of the World all dead hopes drift 

On the heaving heart of the hiding Day 
To the clinging shadows that show no rift, 
With a lingering step that is all too swift 

For the eyes that follow their trackless way — 
West of the World ! 



If you chance to strike a gathering of half-a dozen 

When the di'ink is Highland whusky or some chosen 

Border blends, 
And the room is full of speirin and the gruppin' of 

brown ban's, 
And the talk is all of tartans and of plaidies and of 

You can take things douce and easy, you can judge 

you're going right. 
For you've had the luck to stumble on a wee Scotch 

night ! 

When you're pitchfoi'ked in among them in a sweep- 
ing sort of way 

As '' anither mon an' brither" from the Tweed or from 
the Tay ; 



When you're taken by the oxter and you're couped 
into a chair 

While someone slips a whusky in your tumbler un- 
aware, — 

Then the present seems less dismal and the future fair 
and bricht, 

For you've struck Earth's grandest treasure in a guid 
Scots nicht ! 

When you hear a short name shouted and the same 

name shouted back 
Till you think in the confusion that they've all been 

christened Mac ; 
When you see a red beard flashing in the corner by 

the fire, 
And a giant on the sofa who is six-foot three or 

higher, — 
Before you've guessed the colour and before you've 

gauged the height 
You'll have jumped at the conclusion it's a braw 

Scotch night ! 

When the red man in the corner puts his strong voice 

to the proof 
As he gives The Hundred Pipers, and the chorus lifts 
-the roof ; 


When a chiel sings Amiie Laurie with its tender, 

sweet refrain 
Till the tears are on their eyelids and — the drinks 

come round again ; 
When they chant the stirring war-songs that would 

make the coward fight, — 
Then you're fairly in the middle of a wee Scotch 

night ! 

When the plot begins to thicken and the band begins 

to play ; 
When every tin-pot chieftain has a word or two to 

When they'd sell a Queensland station for a sprig of 

native heath ; 
When there's one Mac on the table and a couple 

underneath ; 
When half of them are sleeping and the whole of 

them are tight, — 
You will know that you're assisting at a [hie !) Scotch 

night ! 

When the last big bottle's empty and the dawn 

creeps gray and cold. 
And the last clan-tartan's folded and the last d d 

lie is told ; 


When they totter down the footpath in a brave, un- 
broken line, 

To the peril of the passers and the tune of Aiild Lang 
Syne ; 

You can tell the folk at breakfast as they watch the 
fearsome sicht, 

" They have only been assisting at a braw Scots 
nicht ! " 


" Absent Friends ! " There are brought to our mind 

The scent of the buddah-bush after the rain ; 
The dawn in the eastward, the death of the stars, 
The wet grass that reaches the cold stirrup bars ; 
The beat of the horse -hoofs that waken the day ; 
The jest and the laughter that shorten the way ! 

So Past vnth Prese,nt gaily blends, 

And merrily, with three times three, 

We drink to " Absent Friends ! " 

" Absent Friends ! " How those words in a wondrous 

Can conjure the lovelight in beautiful eyes ; 
The sound of her voice that was tender and sweet, 
The trail of her robes and the fall of her feet ; 


The moods that could move us to joy or to tears 
In the Love of our youth in the long-ago years ! 

And each one now his greeting sends, 

As earnestly, tvith three times three, 

We toast our " Absent Friends ! " 

" Absent Friends !" — And a home that is over the sea ; 
White snow on the uplands, white rime on the tree ; 
The faces we cherish, whate'er be our lot ; 
The clasp of the hands will be never forgot ; 
The friends of our boyhood who gather and pass 
In the misty reflection of Memory's glass ! 

Our heart across the ocean ivends, 

And loyally, with three times three, 

We toast our " Absent Friends ! " 

" Absent Friends ! " — The lost legion that lies in the 

grave ; 
The friends who were false and the friends we for- 
gave, — 
Whose words had the edge of the enemy's knife. 
To tortui'e the heart and to poison the life ; — 
The friends who lay dying and never could know 
That we loved at the last as we loved long ago ! 
So each across his nine-cup bends, 
And silently, and tear/idly, 
We pledge our " Absent Friends ! " 


There's a whisper away on the Queensland side 

Of the Barwon a banker, the Warrego wide 

Spread from range to red range ; of the siege of a 

Of farms that are wasted and cattle that drown. 
Of a trackless road and a bridgeless sea, 
And grey miles measured from tree to tree — 
And the people gather at gate and rail 
For the latest news by the Darling mail. 

Through all the meriy daylight 

Long leagues behind her fall 
Till golden turns to grey light 

And wedding-robe to pall ; 
Above her rolling thunder 

The shrieking parrots fly. 
And the bush- world waits to wonder 

When the Darling mail goes by ! 



Through all the night she spurns the ground, 

Her headlights shame the stars, 
The rolling dust-cloud wraps her round 

From ledge to leading bars ; 
And like some half-roused sleeper 

Stand each gaunt-armed gum aghast, 
And the shadows gather deeper 

When the Darling mail goes past ! 

She takes the fearsome message down 

By reach and point and bend. 
And camp and farm and river town 

Will hail her as a friend ; 
For comes she not as horsemen ride 

Who ride a race to win 1 
What wonder if they crowd beside 

When the Darling mail comes in ! 

And close behind is the fierce Flood King : 

In the pride of his strength he comes 
Where the tangled masses of drift-weed swing 

Like dead men up in the gums ; 
He sings the psean of curbless might, 

The song of a broken chain. 
And he rides himself in the foremost fight 

With the scourge of a loose-held rain. 


He throws an arm to the Southward now, 

Now au arm to the golden West, 
And the circled lives to the bidding bow 

And are lost on his tawny breast ; 
And day by day as he thunders by 

There is ground to be captive led, 
And night by night where the lowlands lie 

Are the wings of his army spread. 

There's never the stem of a bank-fed tree 

For the touch of his hand too tall. 
And he leaves his brand for the world to see 

On the hut and the homestead wall ; 
There's never a star in the midnight sky 

Or a sunbeam crossing the morn 
But has heard the boast of his battle-cry 

And the threat of his bugle-horn. 

And down where the Queen of the River lies girt with 

her garland of green 
The toilers have heard it and tremble, whose wealth 

is the life of the Queen ; 
In the hush of the evening they hear his low beat on 

the shield of the shore 
And stand to the dam and the earthwork : they know 

it his challenge of yore ! 


And the stockmen ride out in the dawnlight by billa- 
bong, runner and creek 

To gather the sheep and the cattle wherever his war- 
notes speak ; 

And the blood will be red on the rowel, the sun will 
be low in the west 

Before they have left them in safety to camp on the 
red hill's crest. 

And so we shall live and suffer so long as the big 

rains come 
With their ruin and wreck for many, their danger 

and death for some, 
Till we go from the Culgoa and Darling to camp on a 

drier shore 
Whei"e the Warrego out in his warpaint shall harry 

our homes no more ! 


Because we've waked the morning-stai's 

Together, June to June ; 
Because our spurs and stirrupbars 

Have clasped the same old tune ; 
Because we've drawn one honour-line 

And held one cross and creed : 
You will not lay your hand in mine 

Without a last " God-speed ! " 

Because we've ridden knee to knee 

In lists against the world, 
And followed up one destiny 

Beneath one flag unfurled ; 
Because we've lived, a little space, 

One life in word and deed : 
You Avill not meet me face to face 

Without a last " God-speed ! " 


"GOD-SPEED!" 181 

Because one woman came between— 

As women often will — 
Because we thought one girl a queen ; 

Because we think so still ; 
Because no mortal power can say 

How far may True Love lead : 
You will not say " Good-bye ! " to-day — 

" Good-bye ! " ^vithout " God-speed ! " 

Because we've watched the shadows fall, 

Together on the plains — 
When all the night was musical 

With bells and hobble-chains ; 
Because we've gossiped round one blaze, 

Agreed and disagreed : 
Old Comrade, for the olden days, 

You'll wish your mate " God-speed ! " 


The Wind that fires the blood 
Came leaping in from Westward, 

Over stone and stake and stud, 

With the roar of reeling dust-\vi'ack 

And the moan of lifting flood. 

The Wind that knows no chains 

Came in from Westward, laden 
With the i).icense of the plains, 

With the breath of furnace-portals, 
And the reek of camel-trains — 

Brought the promise of the West ; 

And they hailed her through the mountains 
With the honours of a guest, 

For the gold that clasped her girdle 
And the gold that crossed her breast. 



Oh, a Wind came in from Wesiioard, hloiving fetterless 

and free, 
With a ivail of weeping loomen and their childrt-.n at 

their knee. 
With a dirge of empty saddles from the Lachlan to the 

And the naked WeH Wind shivered, "/ have passed 

them on the way — 
The white bones all iincovered to the scornful gaze of 

And I lorapped the red sands ruuiid them, and I kissed 

them as they lay." 


On the crimHon breast of the sunset 

The Gi'ay Selections He, 
And their lonely, grief-stained faces 

Are turned to a pitiless sky ; 
They are wrinkled and seamed with drought-fire 

And wound at the throat with weeds, 
They sob in the aching loneness 

But never a passer heeds. 

I pity you, Gray Selections, 

As I pass you by in the light, 
And I turn again with the shadows 

To take your hand in the night ; 
In homesteads and yards deserted 

'Tis little the world can see, 
But the wail of your endless sorrow 

Throbs under the moon to me. 



I come to you, Gray Selections, 

When the crickets gather and croon, 
An hour at the back of the sunset, 

An hour in advance of the moon ; 
How eager they are to whisper 

Their tale as they hear me pass ! 
Twenty at once in the oak trees, 

Ten at a time in the grass. 

The night •^vinds are chanting above you 

A dirge in the cedar trees 
Whose green boughs groan at your shoulder. 

Whose dead leaves drift to your knees ; 
You cry, and the curlews answer ; 

You call, and the wild dogs hear ; 
Through gaps in the old log-fences 

They creep when the night is near. 

I stand by your fenceless gardens 

And weep for the splintered staves ; 
I watch by your empty ingles 

And mourn by your white-railed graves ; 
I see from your crumbling doorways 

The whispering white forms pass, 
And shiver to hear dead horses 

Crop- cropping the long gi'ay grass. 


Where paddocks are dumb and fallow 

And wild weeds waste to the stars 
I can hear the voice of the driver, 

The thresh of the swingle-bars ; 
I can hear the hum of the stripper 

That follows the golden lanes, 
The snort of the tiring horses. 

The clink of the bucking chains. 

It is night ; but I see the smoke- wreaths 

Float over the dancing haze ; 
I can hear the jackass laughing 

When South winds rustle the maize ; 
I can catch the axes' ringing, 

And out on the range's crown 
I can hear the red fires roaring 

And the great trees thundering down. 

I pity you, Gray Selections, 

Your hearths as cold as a stone. 
The days you must pass unaided, 

The nights you must brave alone ; 
But most when the wailing curlews 

Call over the drear lagoon. 
And out of the ring-barked timber 

Comes blazing the red, red moon. 


They fought for you, Gray Selections, 

The battle of long dry years, 
Through seedtimes of sweat and sorrow 

To harvests of hunger and tears ; 
You turned from the lips that wooed you, 

And Justice, awake on her throne, 
For sake of those brave hearts broken, 

Is watching you brake your own ! 


SiNCK the toasts for the absent are over, 

And duly we've pledged in our wine 
Our Land, and our Friends, and our Lover, 

Here's a toast for you, comrades o' mine : 
7'o the jightiny haiid that icon the land 

From the bitterest icastes out-hack I 
From hut aud hall to the kiiigs of all — 

''The Men Who Blazed the Track!" 

They rode away into the forest 

In mornings gold-studded with stars, 
And the song of the leaders was chorused 

To the clinking of rowel and bars ; 
They fought for the fame of the Islands 

And struck for the Width of the World, 
They fashioned new roads in the silence 

And flags in the fastness unfurled. 



Their tents in the evening would whiten 

The scrub, and the flash of their fires 
Leap over the shadows to brighten 

The way of Ambition's desires ; 
By the axe-marks we followed their courses, 

For scarcely the ashes remain. 
And the tracks of the men and the horses 

Are hidden by dust-storm and rain. 

The seasons from June to December 

Are buried and born as of old, 
But the peoples have ceased to remember 
* Who won them the laurels they hold ; 
Yet sometimes the North wind comes bringing 

Those keener of hearing and sight 
The music of lost axes ringing, 

The beat of lost hoofs in the night. 

Our pride is the path of our fathers. 

Our hope's in the sons of our home, 
And wherever our nation foregathers 

Our nation is foremost to roam ; 
But the valleys that smile to our tillage. 

The hills where our banners unfold. 
Were won by the men of the village 

And bought with their axes of old. 


And we only ride with the flowitig tide 
As we follow the blazed line back, 

So we'll drink the toast of the vanguard host, 
And " The Men Who Blazed the Track! " 


Our Life is but a moment : 

One sheen of silk and pearls, 
One dance between the daylights 

With a certain girl of girls ; 
One feast of burning kisses, 

One blast of Passion's breath — 
And Life is but a moment 

That cheats the hand of Death ! 

Our Life is but a moment : 

One sweep of silken wings, 
One thunder on the greenswai'd. 

One snatch of bridle rings ; 
One struggle for the pride of place. 

One crash of splintered rails — 
And Life is but a moment 

Before the sunlight fails ! 



O, Life is but a moment 

For holding soft white hands, 
Or flying four-foot fences 

While the cheering rocks the stands ; 
So take Love's gift of kisses — 

Or Sport's, in Love's despite — 
For Life is but a moment, 

And after it the Night ! 


I HAD a comrade tried and true, 

Shoulder to shoulder we fought life through ; 

And whoever spoke liglit of his name to me 

Had a foe to face and a sword to flee ; 

I'd have staked my life on the grip of his hantl — 

But swoi'ds get broken and troops disband ! 

I had a lover to fondle and prize, 

With the kindest heart and the truest eyes : 

I wore her scarf on the tourney ground ; 

I pledged her name when the toasts went round ; 

I'd have sworn to her honour before them all — 

But snowdrifts tarnish and bright stars fall ! 

I have a mother, God bless the name ! 

All beauty wedded to all fair fame : 

I have lined her brow with the wish unheard ; 

I have wounded her heart with the careless word ; 

But I know that her love to the last is sure — 

For hills are steadfast and seas endure ! 

M 193 


0, it's southward fiom Southampton ! and she takes 

the Channel gay, 
But many a heart is bleeding as she stands across the 

And it may be just a parting where we've known a 

hundred more, 
Yet many a heart is breaking as the tender swings 

ashore ; 
And the handkerchiefs are waving, ship to steamer, 

line to line. 
And a wail's upon the water in the words of Avid 

LniKj Syne. 

O, it's misty in the Channel and it's stormy in the 

And the lights are dropping backward as she leaves 

them east aw^ay ; 



And she steadies in blue water where the sunny 

islands swoon, 
With the sailors singing forward, and the guests in 

the saloon ; 
And they'll sing the old songs over from the Gib Rock 

to the Line, 
But they cannot drown the music of The Dayfi of Auld 

Lang Slyne ! 

O, she's round the Austral headlands and she's rocking 

through the Rip, 
While all her throbbing engines drum the triumph of 

the trip ; 
And it's gently through the shipping, and it's slowly 

to the Quay, 
And the band has started playing this, the dearest 

tune to me ; 
And they're streaming down the gangway with a 

farewell to the brine. 
And we leave her as we joined her, to the strains of 

Auld, Lang Syne. 

We have heard the ringing chorus shake the iron on 

the roofs. 
While outside the bridles jingle to the stamp of 
- restless hoofs ; 


We have sped — how many comrades 1 — from the 

homestead and the hall, 
Watched them fading in the Unknown to the grandest 

march of all ; 
While some hearts were beating proudly to the lilt of 

every line, 
And some others nearly breaking for the sake of 

Aulil Lang Syne. 

We have sung it o'er the last glass when the morn 
was breaking gray, 

Hands crossed and double chorus in the old time- 
honoured way ; 

We have sung it in our exile till the heartleap and 
the croon 

Brought us back the brown hills' whisper and the 
nodding blue-bells' tune ; 

And the old, old loves are toasted in our cups of 
brimming wine 

While our hearts beat out the music to the words of 
Anhl Lany Sijne. 

It has marked us many partings, it has cost us count- 
less tears. 

It has brought us hopes unanswered from the dimness 
of the years ; 


It is shaded with Life's sorrow, it is crossed with 

broken bauds, 
And the bitterness of kisses and the grief of parting 

hands — 
But so long as Earth has music, and so long as red 

stars shine, 
We shall gather and go outward to the tune of Auld 

Lang Syne ! 


Where the smoke-clouds scarcely drift 

And the breezes seem to sleep, 
Where the sunbeams never lift 

Half the gloom of alleys deep, 
Comrades ! must we languish ever. 

Beat our hearts against the bars 
While the vine-trees kiss the river 

And the ranges greet the stars 1 
There are stormy tints and tender 

In the pictures that we pass — 
But it's O, for day-dawn's splendour 

And the dewdrops in the grass ! 

Though the old life fades behind us, 
Though the new life leaps before. 

Old-time spells are strong to bind us 
Yearning for our yokes of yore ; 

IN TOWN 199 

In the whirl of toil and duty, 

In the pride of pomp and power, 
We can find no grander beauty 

Than the red West's bridal dower ; 
There is music in the rattle 

Of the horse-hoofs down the street — 
But it's O, for ringing cattle 

And the thunder of their feet ! 

Wanton Pleasure laughs beside us 

Where the life-streams ebb and flow, 
Folly's cap and bells deride us, 

Nodding close to Want and Woe ; 
Lordly pageants round us glisten. 

At our feet Life's joys are cast. 
But we have no heart to listen 

With the Bush-wind whispering past ; 
Silver nights of love may hold us 

Till we half forget the stars — 
But it's O, for foam-white shoulders 

And the clink of snaffle-bars ! 


They are fighting beyond Coolgardie, dusty and worn 

and brown, 
Leading the outward legion from dawn till the sun 

goes down : 
Under their blue sky-banner, standing true to their 

Singly and shoulder to shoulder, brothers and sires 

and sons. 

They are faint in the burning noonday, and weaiy 
when day is dead ; 

They have never a thought of resting till Hope from 
their hearts has fled ; 

They are toiling — some for a sweetheart, and some for 
a home and wife ; 

And many are striving for riches, and some are fight- 
ing for life ! 



They are dying beyond Coolgardie in sight of their 

untouched prize, 
With no one to break Death's tidings, and no one to 

close their eyes ; 
They lie in the scrub and the sand-wreath, with never 

a stone to mark 
The grave where the bush-crows gather and the dingo 

crosses at dark. 

I'hey are reading the news by the slush-lamps and under 

the chandeliers, 
And the icords of the dazzling message are blurred with 

the readers' tears ; 
They are praying, aicuy to the Eastward — mothers and 

daughters and wives — 
Asking no golden harvest, but only their loved ones' 

lives ! 


This is the homestead -the still lagoon 

Kisses the foot of the garden fence, 
Shimmering under a silver moon 

In a midnight silence, cold and tense ; 
Vines run wild on the old verandah 

Holding their arms to us standing by ; 
Garden paths where we used to wander 

Carry the bush-grass rank and high. 

Here and there has a blossom stayed 

Out of the wreck of the passing years, 
But these will wither, for flowers must fade 

Whose only water is sea- salt tears. 
Thei'e are ghosts in the garden wildernesses 

And gliding wraiths at the water-side, 
Murmur of voices and rustle of di'esses — 

Shadow-life that has never died. 



The stockyard is empty and dim and drear ; 

Here and there is a gap in the rails, 
But I can see as we stand anear 

Moving steeds when the daylight fails — 
I see as I stand at the slip-rails dreaming 

Merry riders that mount and meet, 
Sun on the saddles gleaming, gleaming, 

Red dust wrapjDing the horses' feet. 

The world is silent under the stars, 

And yet there comes to my ear alone 
The tiny clink of the snaffle-bars 

As the eager heads are upward thrown ; 
And the sound of the muffled hoof -beat after 

Strikes like a hammer on heart and brain. 
And the faint, far echo of drifting laughter 

Wakens the strength of a sleeping pain. 

Come, come away from the lonely home 

Softly, softly as mourners tread ; 
The world is wide ; there is space to roam 

Without awaking the sleeping dead. 
Till the last of the scattered flowers shall wither 

The last of the stockyard-rails decay, 
Till the old walls crumble and fall together 

The ghosts will move in the moonlight gray. 


Hurrah foi' the storm-clouds sweeping ! 

Hurrah for the driving rain ! 
The dull Earth out of her sleeping 

Is wakened to life again. 
There are mirrors of crystal shining 

Whenever the cloud-wrack breaks, 
And grass-clad banks are twining 

A wreath for the fairy lakes — 
Lakes that are links in an endless chain, 

For the water is out in the swamps again ! 

Hurrah for the red-gums standing 

So high on the range above ! 
Hurrah for the she-oaks bending 

So low to the wave they love ! 



Hurrah for the reed-stems slender ! 

Hurrah for the shade they fling 
For the curve of the cygnet's splendour, 

The sheen of the black duck's wing ! 
Hurrah for the clouds and the glorious rain — 

The water is out in the swamps again ! 

Hurrah for the laughing water, 

The songs that the streamlets sing ! 
WhisH ! the teal duck's mate has sought her 

With a stroke of his mottled wing I 
Hurrah for the deepening shallows. 

The ibises eagle-eyed, 
The dash of the purple swallows 

To bury their breasts in the tide ! 
Woe ! it is woe to the Drought-King's reign ! 

The water is out iu the swamps again ! 


They shepherd theii* Black Sheep down to the ships, 

Society's banned and cursed ; 
And the boys look back as the old land dips — 
Some with a reckless laugh on their lips, 

And some with a prayer reversed. 

Audit's Goodbye, England! and Goodbye, Love/ 

And maybe 'lis just as ivell 
When a man /all short of his Heaven above 

That lie drop to the uttermost Hell. 

And the anchor lifts and the sails are set : 

Now God to your help. Black Sheep ! 
For the gay world laughs " They will soon forget !" 
But fired in the embers of old I'egret 

The brand of the world bites deep. 


They turn their Black Sheep over the side 

To land on a stranger's shores ; 
To drift with the cities' human tide, 
Or wander away where the rovers ride 

And the flagless legion wars. 

And Hope for some is a broken staff 

And for others a golden stair, 
Who live for the echo of Love's low laugh 
Or Somebody's face in a photograph. 

Or a coil of Somebody's hair. 

And some that have carried a parting gift 

May kiss it and fling it away 
Far over the clouds that no winds lift 
To follow where our dead hopes drift 

And rest where dead hopes may. 

They bury the Black Sheep out in the Bush, 

And buiy them none too deep 
On the cattle camps and the last gold rush, 
And the grasses grow over them green and lush 

And the bush- winds sing them to sleep. 

Aiid it's Guudbye, Slrrigyle ! and Goodbye, Strife ! 

And maybe 't is just as well 
When a man goes down in the Battle of Life 

That he shorten his road to Hell ! 


7'Ae light we folloiv through a mist of tears 
Is lost wheti close at hand. ye who roam ! 
There is no pity in the passing years, 
And only sadness in the coming home. 

When winter storms have broke a father's strength 
And Age his stamp upon the shoulders set, 
When Hght in those dear eyes has failed at length 
That meet our own so true and kindly yet, 
There is but sadness in the coming home. 

When Care has followed his relentless plough 

To mark the furrows that will last for aye 

Over the softness of a mother's brow. 

When Time has withered all the brown locks gray. 

There is but sadness in the coming home. 



When trees have taller grown and gardens changed 

And meadows are not as they used to be, 

When woods seem smaller where our boy feet ranged, 

Slower the streams that ripple to the sea. 

There is but sadness in the coming home. 

When childish laughter is for ever stilled 
And childish tears by touch of Time are dried. 
When vacant chairs that never can be filled 
Give bitter welcome to the old fireside, 
There is but sadness in the coming home. 

exiled Livs, with the dead days entwined, 
exiled Hearts, aweary while ye roam, 
Earth has no keener pain than this — to find 
Your cruwn of sorrow in the coming home. 


O a weird, wild road is the Wallaby Track 

That is known to the bushmen only, 
Stretching away to the plains out back 

And the big scrubs lorn and lonely ! 
Dawn till dark they are passing there, 

Over the hot sand thronging. 
Shouldering burdens of Doubt and Despair, 

Passion and Love and Longing. 

There are pearls of dew on the Wallaby Track 

For the maiden Day's adorning. 
And blush clouds beating the night-shades back 

In the van of the golden morning ; 
There are glories born of the sinking sun 

In the splendid Eve's lap dying, 
A glitter of stars lit one by one, 

And a rustle of night-wings flying. 


There are long bright days on the "Wallaby Track 

With a blue vault arching over, 
And long, long thoughts that are drifting back 

To the waiting wife and lover ; 
There are horse-bells tinkling down the wind 

With a thousand rippling changes, 
And the boom of the team-bells intertwined 

From the far-oif mulga ranges. 

There are stars of gold on the Wallaby Track, 

And silver the moonbeams glisten ; 
The great Bush sings to us, out and back, 

And we lie in her arms and listen ; 
Our dull hearts quicken their rhythmic beat 

For a wild swan's southward flying, 
And gather old memories sadly sweet 

From a wind-swept pine-bough's sighing. 

There are lone graves left on the Wallaby Track, 
And the bush-grass bends above them ; 

They had no white hands to wave them back. 
Perhaps — no hearts to love them ! 

But none the less will their sleep be sound 
For the Hope and the Love denied them. 

Or the ceaseless tramp on the thirsty ground 

. Till all men sleep beside them. 


Are you tired of the South Land, comrade- 

Of the smoke and the city's din, 
And the roar of the chiding ocean 

When the sobbing tide comes in 1 
Would you ride to the Northward, rather, 

To the skirmish posts of Earth, 
Where the darkest dust-storms gather 

And the wildest floods have birth 1 
Are you tired of the long days idle — 

The days you would fling behind 
For the clasp of the tugging bridle, 

The kiss of the racing wind, 
Where the best camp-horse that ever drew 

A hoof-slide on the plain, 
Is waiting by the creek for you 

Beyond the Barrier Chain 1 



Are you tired of the revel, comrade — 

The life of folly and wine, 
With its one-half lived in the shadow 

And one-half lived in the shine 1 
Are you tired of the poison-glasses. 

The lawless love and the kiss 1 
Out East where the brown range passes 

Do you hope for dearer than this — 
For a handkerchief waved in greeting 

Far off, where it waved farewell, 
For the joy of a dreamed-of meeting 

And the glow of an old love-spell, 
Where the sweetest maid that ever knew 

Love's bliss or parting's pain 
Is waiting open-armed for you 

Beyond the Barrier Chain I 

Let us steer to the Northward, comrades ! 

To the Bush with her witching spells ; 
To the sun-bright days and the camp-fire blaze 

And the chime of the bullock bells ! 
Down the long, long leagues behind us 

The rain shall cover our track. 
And the dust of the North shall bhnd us 

Or ever we follow it back. 


Away from the old friends, comrades ! 

The grasp of the strong brown hand ! 
The love and the life and the laughter 

That brighten the brave North Land ! 
So long as the sunlight fills it, 

So long as the white moons shine, 
So long as the Master wills it, 

The North is your home and mine ! 


I REMKMBER, evei" SO long ago, 
At the other side of the world away 
When rain would cease on an April day, 
When the mountain mists would roll and rise 
And the rainbow ride in the purple skies — 
How they would say to us, " Run, dear heart. 
Out where you see the bright bow start, 
And there you will gather a heap of gold 
As much as ever your hands can hold ; 
Out of the wood and beyond the gate. 
Run for your fortune or you'll be late !" 
How we would run ! I remember still 
The dangerous dash down the garden hill ; 
And many a stumble and many a slip, 
Our eager eyes on the i-ainbow-dip ; 


Limbs aweary but never a rest, 
Beating hearts on the hopeless quest — 
For the further we raced the further passed 
The rainbow goal, till we tired at last. 

golden years', ye are past and gone 

With the far-off flash of a distant dream ; 

But still we are striving and struggling on, 
Chasing the gold and the rainbow gleam ! 

I remember, ever so long ago, 

At the other side of the world away 

As we in our tiny white cots lay 

Half in slumber and half awake, 

Watching the nesting swallow take 

(A moving shade on the blind so white) 

His last trip home to his nest at night — 

How they would say at our bedside : " Soon, 

Dear little heart, the great red moon 

Will climb the sky to her fleecy seat. 

Stars at her shoulder and stars at her feet : 

And if you should wake to-night, dear heart, 

When the night and morning meet and part, 

And open your window ever so wide, 

You'll see where the brave broom-witches ride 


Low to the fir-tops and high to the moon 
With their peaky hats and their pointed shoon 
And first of them all your lover so fair, 
The moon-wind tossing her red-gold hair !" 

Our childish hopes they are dead lang syne ; 

But I wait at night with my ivindow wide, 
And many a lonely watch is mine 

To see my love when the witches ride ! 


" Maybe Fate's weight-cloths are breaking his heart." 

— RuDYARD Kipling. 

Life's race for all is even-lapped 

To watching eyes it seems ; 
But how we may be handicapped 

The wide world never dreams. 
Ah ! well for those whose lot is cast 

Where open war demands ; 
But brave men fighting down the Past 

Are fighting with chained hands. 

The girls who loved us long ago, 

Whose love has changed to scorn, 
Will watching think, "How weak and slow !" 

But never, " How forlorn !" 



Yet by the bitterness of Fate 
The night we chose to part, 

It was their soft hands laid the weight 
Above our throbbing heart. 

The memory of dark deeds done 

That blot a family page ; 
The father leaving to his son 

Sin's ghastly heritage ; 
The treason of a friend untrue, 

The wild dreams better dead. 
The hopes 't is madness to renew — 

These are our weights of lead. 

Life's race for all is even-lapped 

To watching eyes it seems ; 
But how we may be handicapped 

The wide world never dreams. 
Remember, when you cheer the best, 

It was no equal start, 
And some who toil behind the rest 

Have leaden weights at heart ! 


From dawning to dusk moves the crowd in her street 
With eyes looking upward, quick pulses that beat. 

And slow feet that loiter, and duixib lips that call 
Where sunshine and shadow are crossed for them all. 

In mystic mosaic her pavements are set : 

A stone for Sweet Thoughts, then a stone for Regret. 

The walls of her houses are handsome and high, 
Whose balconies break the blue line of the sky. 

On one side the sun fires the columns with light. 
On one side the shadow lies blacker than night. 

On one side Youth's Joys from their windows look 

To watch the wayfarers in Memory Town. 



They laugh with low music that each understands, 
And wave their white 'kerchiefs and kiss their white 

They fling their gay garlands, white roses and red ; 
But Care gallops past us and tramples them dead. 

On the other side stand the Gray Griefs of the years, 
The hands on the railings are wet with their tears. 

With sad eyes and wistful they lean and look down 
On the lone hearts that loiter in Memory Town. 

They bind no white garland, and weave no red 

But strew the dark cypress that whispers of Death. 

So sunlight and shadow are crossed in the crown 

That the old years have wrought us in Memory Town. 


Was it early in the autumn, was it sunny summer 

weather ? 
Were the white mists on the Carter when they 

plucked you on the moor 1 
Were the mountain dews upon you in the morning, 

Sprig of Heather, 
When they took you from your sisters for the long 

lone Southern tour? 

Did you hide from those who sought you 1 Did you 

think the white hand cruel 
That could choose you from a thousand as the 

brightest and the best, 
That could bind you as a token, richer far than any 

For a love- word to the Southland from the old home 

in the west 1 


Did you hear the Nor' winds singing in the white 

sails — you so tightly 
Stringed and covei-ed, pressed and withered, little 

exile from the blue ? 
Did you hear the throbbing engines, and the sirens 

hooting nightly 1 
Did you hear the crashing water and the bow-blade 

breaking through ? 

Did you feel the home-love tremble when I took you 

in my fingers 1 
Did you wonder any longer why they plucked you 

from the moors ? 
Did you know you brought the music of a million 

wild-bee singers ? 
Did you guess that for the mountains yearned another 

heart than yours 1 

Did you know that you were laden with a lost year's 

joy and sorrow 1 
Did you know that you were royal with the rainbow 

and the rain 1 
Lying — oh ! so worn and withered — in my brown 

hand, did you boiTow 
For a moment from the touching all I felt of pride — 

and pain ? 


You are fading, little love-word, as the morning stars 

are paling : 
Will it bring you back the purple of the hill-side 

where you grew 
If I lay you in the window 1 Can it be like me 

you're ailing 
For a sight of mountain moorland, little exile from 

the blue 1 


We fight on far tracks unknown ; 
We ride the way of the rover, 

Each with a Hne of his own ; 
Our banner the bhie sky over, 

Our bugle the bushwind's tone. 

We chai'ge where no red squares kneel. 
We ride with no helmets glitt'ring. 

We carry no gleaming steel ; 
But our reins are foam to the bit-ring. 

Our spurs are red to the heel. 

We war by the watching stars. 
No women look to our wounded, 

No white hands bandage our scars : 
For us no medals ax'e rounded — 

No ribbons or clasps or bars. 

3 2?5 


Swordless and swift we go ; 
Oui' brown arms bared to the slaughter 

Our hearts with the quest aglow ; 
We battle and ask no quarter, 

Our faces turned to the foe. 

At last in the smoke of the years 
Far from where camp and tent lie, 

From clashing of shields and spears. 
We slip to the earth so gently 

That scarcely a comrade hears. 

We slip to the earth and lie 
Clay cold in the golden grasses. 

White faces turned to the sky ; 
And the last of our longings passes, 

The last of our dreams goes by. 

But the drums beat, year to year, 
And men from the wings close round us. 

And men ride up from the rear 
To win — where no smile has crowned us, 

Or lose — where it costs no tear ! 


" NEW Moon to-night ! " you will hear them say, 
Turning their eyes to the glint of gold ; 

But this, as you know, is their quaint little way — 
For the Moon she is centuries old ! 

She swings like a boat in the darkening sky, 
A boat that is gilded from stem to stern, 

And " Turn your money !" the old wives cry — 
But every moon we have less to turn. 

Yet saint and sinner and baron and boor. 

In log-built cabin or marble hall, 
Happy go-lucky and rich and poor — 

The brave little Moon has a smile for all. 

Her cargo has listed astern, this trip. 
And her bows are above the foam, 
But she ploughs away down in the mists, a ship 
- That is eager enough for home. 



Alone in the drift of the leagueless heights 
Her course to the west she steers, 

Rail-high with the lore of a million nights 
And the legends of all the years. 

" New Moon to-night !" so the people say ; 

But the winds that cross her and croon 
They have sung in her silvery sails all day, 

And they know her the old, old Moon. 

And the pine-trees listen and toss their heads 

And laugh in a splendid scorn, 
For the old Moon sailed by their cradle-beds 

Before the speakers were born. 

" ISew Moon to-night ! " So the 'people say, 
Lifting their eyes to the curve of gold ; 

But this, as you know, is their quaint little ivay- 
For the Moon she is centuries old ! 


The camp-fire gleams resistance 

To every twinkling star ; 
The horse-bells in the distance 

Are jangling faint and far ; 
Through gum-boughs lorn and lonely 

The passing breezes sigh ; 
In all the world are only 

My star-crowned Love and I. 

The still night wraps Macquarie ; 

The white moon, drifting slow. 
Takes back her silver glory 

From watching waves below ; 
To dalliance I give over 

Though half the world may chide, 
And clasp my one true Lover 

Here on Macquarie side. 


The loves of earth grow olden 

Or kneel at some new shrine ; 
Her locks are always golden — 

This brave Bush-Love of mine ; 
And for her star-lit beauty, 

And for her dawns dew-pearled, 
Her name in love and duty 

I guard against the world. 

They curse her desert places ! 

How can they understand 
Who know not what her face is 

And never held her hand 1 — 
Who may have heard the meeting 

Of boughs the wind has stirred, 
Yet missed the whispered greeting 

Our listening hearts have heard. 

For some have travelled over 

The long miles at her side, 
Yet claimed her not as Lover 

Nor thought of her as Bride : 
And some have followed after 

Through sun and mist for years, 
Nor held the sunshine laughter, 

Nor guessed the raindrops tears. 


If we some white arms' folding, 

Some warm, red mouth should miss — 
Her hand is ours for holding, 

Her lips are ours to kiss ; 
And closer than a lover 

She shares our lightest breath. 
And droops her great wings over 

To shield us to the death. 

And if her droughts are bitter, 

Her dancing mirage vain — 
Are all things gold that glitter 1 

What pleasure but hath pain? 
And since among Love's blisses 

Love's penalties must live, 
Shall we not take her kisses 

And, taking them, forgive 1 

The winds of Dawn are roving 

The river-oaks astir . . 
What heart were lorn of loving 

That had no Love but her ? 
Till last red stars are lighted 

And last winds wander West, 
Her troth and mine are plighted — 

The lover I love best ! 


The Spring is wai'm and waking, and the wattle's 

bursting bud ; 
And the longing of the rovpr makes a fevei' in the 

blood ; 
The gi'ass is growing swiftly in the sheltered river 

And the Bush, our old coy lover, waits to kiss us and 

make friends ; 
And the yearning is upon us to be somewhere and 

If it's but to tilt at windmills, as a careless Quixote 


And since it matters little if we ride to North or 

To the reeling desert dust-showers or the rocking 

harbour mouth. 


Let's toss our last half-sovereign — and the spinning 

coin shall say : 
If it's heads, we start to-morrow ; if it's tails, we start 

to-day ; 
And heads shall be for Sydney Heads, fair wind and 

ocean tide, 
And tails for tailing weaners on the Diamantina 

side ! 

For Spring is close and coming : you can hear her 

rustling wings 
And her thousand -throated murmur — never music 

like the Spring's ! 
Her hand is in the rover's and her hps to his are 

pressed ; 
She is all a-fire and eager, and she will not let us 

Till our hand's upon the bridle and our foot's upon 

the bar, 
And our face is to the freedom of the storm-wind and 

the star ! 

Long luck to every rover — to the west of Sydney 

With the blue Sea for a lover or the brov/n Bush for 
. a bride ! 


If they mount with merry laughter, may they never 

taste of woe ! 
If they take the track in sorrow, may they gladden as 

they go ! 
There's a free lance down the Lachlan with their 

roving ranks will join 
At the bidding of the Springtide and the spinning of 

a coin ! 


The song- thrush loves the laurel, 
The stone chat haunts the broom, 
But the seagull must have room 
Where the white drift spins ashore 

And the winds and waters quarrel 
With the old hate evermore. 

You clear with scythe or sabre 
A pathway for your feet, 
I move in meadow sweet 
By the side of silent streams, 

And you are lord of labour 
And I am serf of dreams. 

You fill the red wine flagon 
And drink and ride away 
To the toil of each new day. 
But I quaif till dawn be pale 

To the knight or dame or dragon 
Of a dream-spun fairy tale. 


You win your chosen maiden 
With a bracelet for her wrist ; 
Lightly courted, lightly kissed, 
She is yours for weal or woe, 

But my heart goes sorrow-laden 
For a dream-love long ago. 

Let our pathways part for ever, 
I am all content with mine — 
For when lips are tired of wine 
As the long-dead dreamers tell, 

There are poppies by the river. 
There is hemlock in the dell. 


If the lonely graves are scattered in that fenceless 

vast God's Acre, 
If no church bells chime across them, and no mourners 

tread between — 
Yet the souls of those sound sleepers go as swiftly to 

their Maker, 
And the ground is just as sacred, and the graves ai'e 

just as green. 

If we chant no solemn dirges to the virtue of their 

If we sing no hymn words o'er them-^in the glory of 

the stars 
They can hear a grander music than was ever ours for 

God's choristers invisible — the winds in the belars. 



If we set them up no marble, it is none the less we 

love them : 
If we carved a million columns would it bring them 

better rest 1 
If no gentle hands have fashioned snow-white wreaths 

to lay above them, 
God has laid His own wild flowers on the lonely 

graves out West. 


I CHANCED on an old l^rown book to-day 
All stained and yellow with dust and age, 

But the beats of a boy's heart, stilled for aye, 
Are heard at the turning of every page. 

For the old brown book was the day's desire 
When sweet princesses and knights in mail 

And guardian dragons with tongues of fire 
Were marshalled to fashion a fairy tale. 

I laughed at the little Tin Soldier then. 

And cried for the Maiden with Heart Ice-cold ; 

But now they are different, maids and men, 
And the lustre is gone from their garb of gold. 

I am reading to-day as a man may read. 
By no spell bidden or charm beguiled ; 

For the gem is a pebble, the flower a weed, 
Till it wake to worth in the heart of a child. 



I turn the pages ; the old loves pass, 

But I dream in their dear delight no more ; 

I watched them once through a rose hued glass, 
I am standing now at an oaken door. 

I put them aside with a sigh, a frown, 

For the folk seem foolish, the wonders tame. 

And I understand as I lay them down 

That the stories can never be quite the same. 

But I'd give the worth of the books I've read, 
The books of the world with their wondrous lore, 

Just to go back to the days long dead 
With a heart for a fairy tale once more ! 


Last night in Memory's boughs aswing, 
When none but I had heart to hear, 
A wee bi'own mavis tried to sing. 

But, ah ! the wild notes would not ring- 
As once they rang — so loud and clear ! 
Last night in Memory's boughs aswing. 

I saw the rowan-clusters cling, 

And far away and yet so near 
A wee brown mavis tried to sing. 

Almost I found a long-lost Spring, 
Almost the loves I held so dear, 
Last night in Memory's boughs aswing 

For joys that had their blossoming 

Beyond the grief of each gray year 
A wee brown mavis ti'ied to sing ; 



But the dew wrapped him, glistening, 

And every dew-drop told a tear 
Last night in Memory's boughs aswing, 

While, throbbing heart and drooping wing, 

And chill claws grasping at his bier, 
A wee brown mavis tried to sing. 

But I shall know when hailstorms sting, 
And not forget when leaves are sere, 

Last night in Memory's boughs aswing 
A wee brown mavis tried to sing. 


A LITHE young squatter passes in the dust, 
His buckles gleaming and his bars aglance ; 
But laden with long years of old romance 
The quaint old stirrups covered with red rust ! 
The troops are scattered and the dark days dead 
When robber bands made wild the Lachlan side ; 
No hunted outlaws to the mountains ride, 
A thousand pounds of blood-fee on their head : 
And only these quaint stirrups hand us down 
The thrilling story no one halts to hear 
Of long ^vild rides below the trusted stars. 
And that last mournful journey to the town — 
The lifeless form bound to the saddle-gear, 
The blood-drops falling on the stirrup-bars. 



Have you learnt the sorrow of windy nights 
When lilacs down in the garden moan, 

And stars are flickering faint, wan lights. 
And voices whisper in wood and stone 1 
When steps on the stairway creak and groan, 

And shadowy ghosts take an hour of ease 
In dim-lit galleries all their own 1 

Do you know the sorrow of nights like these 1 

Have you lain awake on the windy nights 
Slighted by sleep and to rest unknown. 

When keen remorse is a whip that smites 
With every gust on the window blown 1 
When phantom Love from a broken throne 

Steps down through the Night's torn tapestries. 
Sad eyed and wistful, and ah ! so lone 1 

Do you know the sorrow of nights like these 1 


Have you felt a touch on the windy nights — 
The touch of a hand not flesh nor bone, 

Bvit a mystical something, pale, that plights 

With waning stars and with dead stars strown 1 
Or heai'd grey lips with the fire all flown 

Pleading again in a lull o' the breeze — 

A long life's wreck in a short hour shown 1 

Do you know the sorrow of nights like these ? 

Ah, the lohirlwind reaped where a ivind is sown, 
And the phantom Love in theniijht one sees ! 

Ah, the touching hand and the pleading tone I 
Do ijou know the sorrow of nights like these / 


Let the sailor tell of the roaring gale 

Or the blue waves' rippling laughter, 
Let the soldier sing of the sabre swing 

Or the laurels of glory after ; 
There's a melody in the changeful sea, 

There's a charm in the l)attle thunder, 
But sweeter than those, the bushman knows, 

Is the bound of a good horse under. 

You can hear his feet on the sandhill beat 

That the dew of the morning lies on, 
As he strides away at the dawn of day 

Ere the sun has topped the horizon ; 
You can hear them pass through the rustling grass 

With a beautiful rhythmic measure. 
As he pulls at the rein on the open plain 

With a share in his master's pleasure. 


You can feel him fight for a faster flight 

With an eagerness never grown idle, 
As you firmly sit with a hold of the bit 

And a strong hand on the bridle ; 
You can feel him creep, then plunge with a leap 

Like the forward drive of a shallop 
When she carves the stream with a gust abeam, 

As he changes step in the gallop. 

You can tell by his ears that the hoofs he hears 

Of the brumbies that cross from the I'iver : 
How the foam-flakes flit as he mouths the bit ! 

How the beautiful nosti'ils quiver ! 
How he rears and bounds at the nearer sounds 

As the mob goes thundering by him ! 
How he'd lay to his speed and challenge the lead 

If his master would only try him ! 

Let this one stand where the sails are fanned 

By a favouring breeze behind him ; 
Let that one sip at the cannon's lip 

Such joys as the battle can find him ; 
This moral to each I'll venture to teach, 

Though loth in life's journey to guide him — 
A man may have ivorse than an honest horse 

And the health and the heart to ride him ! 


Somewhere, liid in our hearts, a City stands 
Gray-mossed with all the sorrow of the years. 

And broken-arched with Love's unclasping hands 
And mortared stone to stone with bitter tears. 

Here at each corner of the silent streets, 
By every fountain in the empty squares. 

Each one of us his stilled Sorrow meets 
Beneath the mouldering arches, unawares. 

From dawn till day-death, white beneath the sun. 
Hand in cold hand go past our sheeted dead, 

Pale with regret for deeds of ours undone. 
Weary with longing for our words unsaid. 

Here the dim Sins held close in buried days. 
With the loud sandals of Remembrance shod. 

Make hollow echo on the grass-grown ways, 
Calling the vengeance of an unknown God. 



Here the lost chances of a ruined life 

From shrivelled lips let loose a mocking tongue, 

Or turn and stab with a relentless knife 

The souls that scorned them when the world was 

Here the hot kisses of a cruel love, 

The lustful kisses, burn like heated brands ; 

Here is no rest ; no Lethe to remove 
The snowy fetters of the clinging hands. 

Fades the red sun from minaret and dome 
Mght after weeping night ; and still beneath 

The gray-grown Griefs in long procession come. 
Death's messengers without the peace of Death. 


The lamps will be lit over seas to-night, 

And the feast of the year be spread, 
And the girls will gather with faces bright 

And the wine will sparkle red ; 
And hands will close on the glass's stem. 

And over the Christmas cheer 
The boys will be drinking " Long life to them !" 

On the happiest day of the year. 
And spite of the sorrow that hides for shame 

In the brown locks streaked with gray, 
Though a father may frown at a whispered name 

Yet a mother will have her way ; 
For a son's disgrace is a sword to smite, 

But Time is a balm to heal, 
And in many a home in the North to-night 

They will drink to their ne'er-do-weel. 


The township streets will be full to-night 

With the bushmen from far and near 
Who have ridden to share in the wild delight 

Of the merriest day in the year ; 
And men will come from the dusty street 

And stand at the crowded bar, 
And maybe a memory soft and sweet 

Will float to some heart from far — 
A flashing of lights in a lordly home, 

And a glitter of lifted hands 
As they drink to the health of the boys who roam 

In those different distant lands. 
And there in the midst of a noisy host, 

In a sorrow that none can feel, 
Will be fashioned, it may be, a silent toast 

In the heart of some ne'er do-weel. 


So here at the last I find 

I am holding again your hand, 
And why you are cruel no more, but kind, 

I scarcely can understand ; 
But I know that the earth is ablaze with roses, 

I know that the lilies make paths for our feet, 
And as long as your hand on my own hand closes 

I know that you love me, sweet ! 

I hear as of old your voice 

That is speaking my name so low, so low, 
Till all things living rejoice 

And all things gladden that grow j 
And I know that the skies are a dazzling blue 

And the face of the earth is fair, 
And I know that the birds are calling you true 

In songs that are everywheie. 


I am kissing you ovei* and over, 

I am holding you close to my heart, 
As of old we are lover and lover 

And live in a world apart . . . 
I hear no longer your sweet voice calling, 

But oiily the wail of the tvind instead; 
I have lost yow face in the shadows falling — 

Darling ! the cruellest dream is dead. 


O, WE think we're happy roving ! 

But the stars that crown the night, 
They are only ours for loving 

When the moon is lost to sight ! 
And my hopes are fleeting forward 

With the ships that sail the sea, 
And my eyes are to the Nor 'ward 

As an exile's well may be, 
And my heart a shrine has sought her 

Where the lights and shadows play, 
At the foot of Bowmont Water, 

Bowmont Water — far away. 

O, it's fair in summer weather 
When the red sun dropping low 

Sets a lustre on the heather 
And the Cheviot peaks aglow ; 



When the hares come down the meadows 

In the gloaming clear and still, 
And the flirting lights and shadows 

Play at hidies on the hill ; 
When the wild duck's mate has sought her 

And the speckled hill-trout play 
At the foot of Bowmont Water, 

Bo^vmont Water — far away. 

0, it's grand when Winter's creeping 

And the rime is on the trees, 
And the giant hills are sleeping 

With the gray clouds on their knees; 
When the autumn days are ended 

And the glens are deep with snow, 
And the grips are dark and splendid 

Where the mountain eagles go : 
Then the strath is a king's daughter. 

In her purple robes and gray, 
At the foot of Bowmont Water, 

Bowmont Water — far away. 

We have wandered down the valley 

In the days of buried time, 
Seen the foxgloves dip and dally. 

Heard the fairy blue-bells chime ; 


Seen the briei' I'oses quiver 

When the West-wind crossed the dell, 
Heard the music of the river 

And the tale it had to tell, 
Where the melody Love taught her 

Is the laverock's only lay, 
At the foot of Bowmont Water, 

Bowmont Water — far away. 

I have tried the spots, in order, 

Where the brightest sunbeams fall, 
But the land upon the Border 

Is my own land after all. 
And I would not take the glory 

Of the whole world's golden sheen 
For the white mists down the corrie 

And the naked scaurs between ; 
And my heart a shrine has sought her 

That will last her little day — • 
At the foot of Bowmont Water, 

Bowmont Watei* — far away. 


A EKD rose grew on a southward wall, 
There was never a rose on the tree so tall ; 
Though roses twined at my lingei'ing feet 
Roses and roses, scented sweet, 
And roses bent to my love-lit eyes, 
Roses flaming in wanton guise, 
And roses swung at my shoulder height. 
Damask and crimson and golden and white, 
With a curse for all and a frown for each 
I longed for the rose beyond my reach. 

The gold sun shone in the summer days, 
The wee buds opened a hundred ways ; 
Winds of the morning, whispering sweet, 
Tossed the blown roses down at my feet. 
Dainty petals for lover's tread. 
Ruby and ivory — brown and dead ! 

Q 257 


But morning to nooning, noon to night, 
One rose only glowed in my sight — 
Silently, all too rapt for speech, 
I worshipped the rose beyond my reach. 

I stormed her tower on the southward wall 
To drop fatigued from the bastions tall ; 
Thorns made sport of me, red as the rose 
A hundred wounds ran blood at their blows ; 
The soft little roses red and white 
Changed to the bitterest foes in spite. 
Scourged my face with their stinging wands, 
Mocked my toil and my bleeding hands 
Till I learned at last what they strove to teach 
The great red rose was beyond my reach. 

And so I watched in the autumn days : 

" Summer is dead," so I mused agaze ; 

" The cold mists creep when the night is nigh, 

Day after day the roses die. 

Storms of winter will gather soon, 

Frosts will follow the coming moon — 

Here if I wait where the blooms are cast 

My love will drop to my arms at last !" . 

But wild winds laden with death for each 

Blew the red petals beyond my reach. 

« SORRY TO GO ! " 

I WATCHED by the homestead where moon-beam and 
Made a glory of night-time and danced with the 
And the bush wind that whispered from ranges afar 
Set a-tremble the kurrajong leaves as it blew : 
And down by the river, 
With white waves aflow, 
I bade a farewell to the homestead for ever, 

And sighed to the night- world, " I'm sorry to go," 

" Sorry to go" — 
And echo came answering, " Sorry to go ! " 

I saddled old Dauntless at grey of the dawn 

For a last swinging gallop on Moondarra plain ; 
He circled and plunged till the girth-straps wei'e 
And snatched at the snaffle and reached at the 
rein ; 

Ql 269 

260 "SORRY TO GO!" 

And swiftly behind us 
We left the red glow 
Of the sunrise that spread her pink mantle to wind 
And magpies awaking sang, " Sorry to go," 

" Sorry to go " — 
The bush-birds came mocking me, " Sorry to 

I called to my lover, a chain from her gate ; 

She came to the vine-tree to bid me good-bye, 
With white arms to weave me a necklet of state 
And red lips to smother the sound of a sigh ; 
Oh, kisses rained warmly ! 
Oh, tears that must flow ! 
To-morrow the sorrow Avhere head and white arm 
To-night the low whisper — " I'm sorry to go," 

" Sorry to go " — 
Heart to heart answering, " Sorry to go ! ' 

I held for a moment an old comrade's hand 

Burnt brown with the sun-fire and roughened and 
scarred ; 

I saw at the touching the whips and the brand, 
The camp and the muster, the steers in the yard ; 

"SORRY TO GO! " 261 

And since I have clasped them 
In weal and in woe, 
To the toil of the world that has roughened and 
rasped them 
I leave the brown hands ; crying " Sorry to go," 

*' So7-rij to go " — 
"Good-bye!" and "God -speed!" and . . . 
" Sorry to go ! " 


Beyond where farthest drought-fires burn, 

By hand of Fate it once befell, 
I reached the realm of No-Return 

That meets the March of Hell. 

A silence crueller than Death 

Laid fetters on the fateful air ; 
She holds no hope : she fights for breath. 

The Land of Dumb Despair ! 

Here fill their glasses, red as blood. 
The victims of fell Fortune's frown ; 

They drink their wine as brave men should 
And fling the goblets down. 

They crowd the boai'd, red wreaths of rose 
Across their foreheads drooped and curled. 

But in their eyes the gloom that knows 
The grief of all the world. 



The poison lies behind their wine 

So close, the trembling hands that take 

Might well be doubted to divine 

Which draught such thirst would slake. 

The bows beside their hands are strung ; 

The blue steel glitters, bare of sheath ; 
'Tis wonder tired Life drags among 

So many ways to Death ! 

They may not whisper, one to one, 

The stories of their fancied fall : 
The words that ring beneath the sun 

Would faint in such a pall. 

In silence, man by man, they reach 

For cup, for arrow, or for sword. 
And still the grey World fills the breach 

Each leaves beside the board. 


Take this farewell from one must leave 

The rowel and the rein 
Before the blue Canoblas weave 

Their snow-white hoods again ; 
Before the winter suns have kissed 

The lips of Autumn dead, 
Before they call the next year's list 

At Nocoleche shed ; 
Before the pines on Lightning Ridge 

Have bowed to six new moons, 
Before the floods to Tarrion Bridge 

Back up the dry lagoons. 
In vain the luring West-wind sighs — 

For Home's across the sea, 
And Northward round the Leu win lies 

The next long trip for me ! 


In leisure and in labour 

We've /aced the world afield, 
With saddle /or a sahre 

And brave heart for a shield ; 
We've /ought the long dry weather. 

We've heard the wiM floods wake, 
We've battled through together 

For the old game's royal sake. 

We have heard the tug-chains ring in the swamps 

When the thundering whipstrokes fall ; 
We have watched the stars on the droving camps 

Come out by the gum-trees tall ; 
We have lingered long by the low slip-rails 

Where maybe a light love waits, 
When shadows creep and the red sun sails 

Low down by the stockyard gates ; 
We have stirred perhaps by the lone watch-fires 

The ashes of old regret, 
The loves unwon and the lost desires, 

And the hopes that are hard to forget. 

The tracks we've travelled over 

Were hungry tracks and hard ; 
Long days v)e've flayed the rover, 

Dark nights we've kept our guard ; 


But chained in silver glories 

The Bush our hearts has stirred. 

And told the starlight stories 
That no one else has heard. 

The gray-white dawns will wake you and the gold 

noons watch you pass 
Behind the roving Queensland mobs knee-deep in 

Nebine grass ; 
You will cross the old tracks Nor'wai^d, you will run 

the old roads West, 
And I shall follow with my heart dream-droving 

with the rest, 
And often in the sleepless nights I'll listen, as I 

To the hobble-chains clink-clinking, and the horse- 
bells rippling by. 
I shall hear the brave hoofs beating, I shall see the 

moving steers 
And the red glow of the camp-fii'es as they flame 

across the years. 
And my heart will fill with longing just to ride for 

once again 
In the forefront of the battle where the men who 

fight are Men ; 


And when beyond the Ocean we are pledging toasts 

in wine, 
I shall give " The Overlanders ! " in that far-off land 

of mine. 

The Brave West ! Here's totvard her ! 

The "■plant's" gone out before: 
Their heads are to the Border 

B^it I'll go out no more ; 
We've fought the long dry tceather ; 

We've faced the blinding tvet ; 
And we were mates together 

And I shall not forget ! 

Websdale, Shoosmith and Co., Printers, Sydney 

Xovemhe.r. 1906. 



Angus & Robertson 




By Will H. Ogilvie. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt 
top, with portrait ("Snowy River" Series), 
5s. {post free 5s. 5d.). 

The Argus: "There is a faculty for rhythmical versification 
display eel on every page, a true and sympathetic eye for Nature 
in her many garbs, a certain careless gaiety of touch in the 
lighter poeins, and many ballads which strike a simple and 
genuine note of feeling. ... In lines full of freshness and 
vigour Mr. Ogilvie seizes upon the picturesque aspects of bush 
life. Passing by the monotony and the dreary details, he sings 
of the sights and sounds of the camp and the cattle trail in a 
strain which inclines his readers to doubt the assertion that 
melancholy ever brooded over the Australian Bush." 

New Zealand Mail : ' ' There is all the buoyancy, the lustiness 
of youth, the joie-de-vivre of the man who rejoices in the fresh 
air 'and the fine, free, up-country life — all this there is in Mr. 
Ogihde's verse, and much more that is eminently sane and 
healthy, a characteristic production of a wholesome mind. ' ' 

Queenslander : "Within the covers of 'Fair Girls and Gray 
Horses' lie some delicious morsels to tempt all palates. There 
is for the asking, the stirring swing and rhythm of his galloping 
rhymes, the jingle of bit and bridle, the creak of well-worn 
saddles, the scent of gum and wattle, the swift, keen rush of 
the bush wind in the face of ' The Man Who Steadies the Lead. ' 
. . . . Picture after picture starts out of his pages to 
gladden the hearts of the men out back." 

Glasgow Daily Mail: "A volume which deserves a hearty 
welcome is this collection of Australian verse. ... It has 
a spirit and lyrical charm that make it very enjoyaljle, ' ' 



By D. G. SouTAR, Amateur Cliampion of Austra- 
lasia. 1903; Amateur Cliampion of New South 
Wales, 1903-4; Open Champion of Austra- 
la'-ia, 1905. AVith Tti plates and 13 diagrams. 
Demy 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top, 10s. 6d. {post 
free'lls. 3d.). 

The Australasian : ' ' He has spared no trouble or expense 
in making the book first-class. There are nearly 70 pictures of 
golfers in every stage of making the various shots. This is one 
])oiut in which Soutar's book excels other books. They usually 
give the positions at the commencement and the finish of the 
shots, and also at the top of the swing, but Soutar traces the 
shot all the way round. He also gives little details apt to be 
overlooked, but which are very valuable. ' ' 

Sydney Morning Herald : ' ' Mr. Soutar 's book will be highly 
appreciated as affording a sort of finishing touch to practical 
instruction, and a valuable guide to the subtleties of the game 
as practised in Australia. And, for those players who live away 
from centres of population, and who are without the aid of 
professionals or players who have learnt from professionals, ' The 
Australian Golfer' should be indispensable." 

Extract from Preface: "My principal difficulty in compil- 
ing this treatise has been in deciding what to leave out, for 
there is an ever-present danger of embarrassing the beginner 
with too much detail, and I feel strongly that whatever success 
may have attended my efforts at coaching in person, has been 
largely due to the fact that I have always tried to avoid an 
insistence upon minor details at first. But, in dealing with the 
game on paper, one has to avoid the other danger of leaving out 
important details — or, rather, details which become important 
when tho pupil has reached a certain stage in his golfing educa- 
tion. For this reason I have given considerable care to the 
preparation of a set of diagrams showing exactly how one 
ought to stand, and hold the club for each separate shot, and 
these, in conjunction with the photographs — which were taken 
especially for this book — should enable the student, not only to 
lay the foundation of a correct style and swing, Vjut to correct 
any faults he may have already developed in this direction. The 
value of the diagrams, as compared with all others which have 
come under my notice, lies in the fact that they give the angle 
at which the club is held in each instance, as well as the position 
of the feet, and this is an imjiortant detail, for it is quite 
possible to neutralise the effect of correctness in the latter 
respect by stooping too much over the ball, or the reverse. ' ' 



Edited by Bertram Stevens. Foolscap 8vo., 
limp calf, extra gilt, gilt top, with silk 
marker, 3s. 6d. ; cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. {postage 

This volume contains the best verse written by Australians, 
or inspired by Australian scenery and conditions of life. The 
Editor has explored every available source, exercising at the 
same time great discrimination. 

Mr. Will H. Ogilvie, in the course of an interesting letter, 
says: — "Congratulations are due to your Editor for his selec- 
tion. ... At last we shall get away from the 'humorously 
absurd' attitude; at last we shall get something of the true 
spirit of Australian poetry." 

Sydney Morning Herald : ' ' There is evidence in the selec- 
tions and in the introduction that he has made a diligent and 
careful study of the whole field of Australian poetry. We have 
only to thank both editor and publishers for a beautiful little 
book full of beautiful things." 

The Argus : " It represents an achievement to which the most 
patriotic Australian may point with legitimate pride." 

The Age : ' ' He deserves to be sincerely complimented for the 
admirable fashion in which he has brought what must have been 
an arduous task to fruition. ' ' 

Brisbane Courier: "One of the most charming things of the 
kind ever given to Australia. ' ' 

The Kegister (Adelaide): "This precious parcel of Austra- 
lian song. ' ' 

The Australasian: "A delightful pocket companion." 

Town and Country Journal: "A charming little volume to 
read and to handle." 

The Leader: "The work of selection has been well done, and 
the editor may be complimented on the discretion and critical 
taste he has displayed. ' ' 

Launceston Examiner : ' * The book is one that should be in 
the library of every Australian. ' ' 

London: Macmillan and Co., Ltd. 

AN OUTBACK MARRIAGE : a story of Australian Life. 

By A. B. Paterson, author of "The Man from 

Sno^\^ River," and "Rio Grande's Last 

Race." Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. {post 
free 4s.). 

"Rolf Boldrewood," on reading this story in serial form, 
wrote: — "The dialect is simply delicious, and the general de- 
scriptions of outback life most original and effective." 

[Just published. 


By Ethel C. Pedley. With 6 plates by F. P. 
Mahony. Crown 8vo., cloth, extra gilt, 3s. 6d. 
{post free 3s. lid.). 

Sydney Morning Herald: " 'Dot and the Kangaroo' is with- 
out doubt one of the most charming books that could be put into 
the hands of a child. It is admirably illustrated by Frank P. 
Mahony, who seems to have entered thoroughly into the spirit 
of this beautiful journey into the animal world of Australia. 
The story is altogether Australian. . . . It is told so simply, 
and yet so artistically, that even the ' grown-ups ' amongst us 
must enjoy it. ' ' 

Daily Telegraph : ' ' The late Miss Ethel Pedley was a 
musician to the core. But towards the close of her life she 
made one step aside into the domain of a sister art, which re- 
sulted in a book for children, entitled 'Dot and the Kangaroo' — 
a charming story of the ' Alice in Wonderland ' order. . . . 
Dot, the small heroine, is lost in the bush, where she is fed and 
ministered to by a helpful kangaroo, who introduces her gradu- 
ally to quite a little circle of acquaintances. We hob-nob, 
through Dot, with our old friends the opossum, the native bear, 
the platypus, the bower-bird, not to speak of the emu sheep- 
hunters and the cockatoo judge. There is a most exciting fight 
between a valiant kookooburra and a treacherous snake. Alto- 
gether, Miss Pedley 's story is told in a way to entrance our 
small readers, who generally revel in tales where animals are 
invested with human attributes. ' ' 


By George Essex Evans. CroT\Ti 8vo., cloth gilt, 
gilt top, with portrait ("Snowy River" 
Series), 5s. {post free 5s. 6d.) 

[Just puhlished. 


By A. B. Paterson. Thirty-fifth thousand. 
With photogravure portrait and vignette 
title. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. 
(post free os. 5d.). 

The Literary Tear Book: "The immediate success of this 
book of bush ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary 
annals, nor can any living English or American poet boast so 
wide a public, always excepting Mr. Eudyard Kipling." 

Spectator: "These lines have the true lyrical ciy in them. 
Eloquent and ardent verses. ' ' 

ATHEy^EUM : "Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, 
ready pathos, and crowding adventure. . . . Stirring and 
entertaining ballads about great rides, in which the lines gallop 
like the very hoofs of the horses. ' ' 

The Times: "At his best he compares not unfavourably with 
the author of 'Barrack-Eoom Ballads.' " 

Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in Literature (London): "In 
my opinion, it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Aus- 
tralian style and character of these new bush bards which has 
given them such immediate popularity, such wide vogue, among 
all classes of the rising native generation. ' ' 

Westmixster Gazette: "Australia has produced in Mr. A. 
B. Paterson a national poet whose bush ballads are as distinc- 
tively characteristic of the country as Burns 's poetry is charac- 
teristic of Scotland. ' ' 

The Scotsman: "A book like this ... is worth a dozen 
of the aspiring, idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough 
laughter and a dash of real tears in its composition. ' ' 

Glasgow^ Herald : ' ' These ballads . . . are full of such 
go that the mere reading of them makes the blood tingle. . . . 
But there are other things in Mr. Paterson 's book besides mere 
racing and chasing, and each piece bears the mark of special 
local knowledge, feeling, and colour. The poet has also a note 
of pathos, which is always wholesome. ' ' 

Literar? World: "He gallops along with a by no means 
doubtful music, shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pur- 
suit of wild bush horses, constraining us to listen and ai)plaud 
by dint of his manly tones and capital subjects. . , . We 
turn to Mr. Paterson 's roaring muse with instantaneous grati- 
tude. ' ' 

London: MacmUlan and Co., Limited. 


By A. B. Paterson. Fifth thousand. Crown 
8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. {post free 5s. 5d.). 

Spkctator : ' ' There is no mistaking the vigour of Mr. Pater- 
son 's verse ; there is no difficulty in feeling the strong human 
interest which moves in it. ' ' 

Daily Mail: "Every way worthy of the man who ranks with 
the first of Australian poets. ' ' 

Scotsman: "At once naturalistic and imaginative, and racy 
without being slangy, the poems have always a strong human 
interest of every-da_y life to keep them going. They make a 
book which should give an equal pleasure to simple and to 
fastidious readers. ' ' 

Bookman: "Now and again a deeper theme, like an echo 
from the older, more experienced land, leads him to more serious 
singing, and proves that real poetry is, after all, universal. It 
is a hearty book. ' ' 

Daily Chronicle : ' ' Mr. Paterson has powerful and varied 
sympathies, coupled with a genuine lyrical impulse, and some 
skill, which makes his attempts always attractive and usually 
successful. ' ' 

Glasgow Herald: "These are all entertaining, their rough 
and ready wit and virility of expression making them highly 
acceptable, while the dash of satire gives point to the humour." 

British Australasian: "He catches the bush in its most 
joyous moments, and writes of it with the simple charm of an 
unaffected lover." 

The Times: "Will be welcome to that too select class at 
home who follow the Australian endeavour to utter a fresh and 
genuine poetic voice." 

Manchester Courier: "Mr. Paterson now proves beyond 
question that Australia has produced at least one singer who 
can voice in truest poetry the aspirations and experiences 
peculiar to the Commonwealth, and who is to be ranked with the 
foremost living poets of the motherland. ' ' 

St. James 's Gazette : ' ' Fine, swinging, stirring stuff, that 
sings as it goes along. The subjects are capital, and some of 
the refrains haunt one. There is always room for a Iwok of 
unpretentious, vigorous verse of this sort." 

The Argus: "These ballads make bright and easy reading; 
one takes up the book, and, delighted at the rhythm, turns page 
after page, finding entertainment upon each. ' ' 

London: Macmillan and Co., Limited. 


New edition, with pliotogra\^ire portrait. Crown 
8vo., clotli gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free 5s. 5d.). 
See also CommoniveaJth Series, page 14. 

The Times : ' ' This collection of the works of the Queensland 
poet, who has for a generation deservedly held a high place in 
Australian literature, well deserves study. ' ' 

Daily News : "In turning over the pages of this volume, 
one is struck by his breadth, his versatility, his compass, as 
evidenced in theme, sentiment, and style. ' ' 

The Athen jeum : ' ' Brunton Stephens, . . . well known 
to all those who are curious in Australian literature, as being, 
on the whole, the best of Australian poets." 

St. James ' Gazette : ' ' This substantial volume of verse con- 
tains a great deal that is very fresh and pleasing, whether grave 
or gay." 

Manchester Guardian : ' ' He shows a capacity for forceful 
and rhetorical verse, which makes a fit vehicle for Imperial 
themes. ' ' 

Speaker: "We gladly recognise the merit of much that 
appears in ' The Poetical Works of Mr. Brunton Stephens. ' 
. . . . In the more ambitious pieces (and in these the author 
is most successful) he models himself on good masters, and his 
strains have power and dignity." 

Publishers' Circular: "Having greatly enjoyed many of 
the poems in the handsome edition of Mr. Brunton Stephens' 
works, we strongly advise such readers of poetry in the old 
country as are unacquainted -n-ith his contributions to English 
literature to procure the volume as soon as possible." 


By 'Rena Wallace. With portrait. Crown 
8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. {post free 3s. 4d.). 

Daily Telegraph: "There is passion as well as melody in 
'A Bush Girl's Songs'; and there is thought also — real thought, 
that underlies the music of the verse, and gives the writer some- 
thing definite to comnnmieate to her readers on the great 
universal subjects that arc the province of true poetry, as 
distinct from mere verse. One cannot help remarking with 
pleasure the prevailing note of hopefulness, a sunshiny charm, 
that is felt throughout all this fresh young writer's work." 


By John Farrell. "With Memoir, Appreciations, 
and photopravure portrait. Crown 8vo., 
cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. {j^ost free 5s. 4d.). 

Melbourne Age: "Farrell's contributions to the literatnre 
of this country were always distinguished by a fine, stirring 
optimism, a genuine sympathy, and an idealistic sentiment, 
which in the book under notice find their fullest expression." 

New Zealand Mail: "Of the part of Mr. Farrell's work con- 
tained in this volume it is not necessary to say more than that 
it has long since received sincere commendation, not only from 
other Australian writers, but from men eminent in letters in 
England and America. ' ' 

The World 's News : " It is a volume which no Australian 
reader can afford to be without. John Farrell was a \-igorous 
writer, one, too, in whom the poetic spirit was very strong, and 
he had the gift of expressing himself in terse language. Had 
he written nothing else than 'Australia to England,' his name 
would live for all time. ' ' 

PARSIFAL : A Romantic " Mystery" Drama. 

By T. HiLHOUSE Taylor. With Preface by J. 
C. Williamson. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
{post free 3s. 9d.). 

Extract from Preface : " . . . . 1 thought that in 
capable hands a play could be written worthy of the grandeur 
of the subject and its magnificent scenic surroundings. 
I sought out my old friend, the Eev. T. H. Taylor, for whose 
literary ability I have great admiration, and endeavoured to 
interest him in this subject. He took the matter up with 
enthusiastic zeal and religious fervour, making a deep study of 
the subject, and not confining himself in any way to Wagner's 
opera for the material; the result being a play which seems to 
me to be tnily poetic and intensely dramatic. ' ' 

Daily Telegraph: "The author has produced a drama which 
not only contains many passages of poetic beauty, but provides 
ample scope for the great spectacular scenes that are necessary 
(o the effective staging of this form of drama." 

Town and Country Journal : * ' Mr. Taylor has performed 
his diflScult task in a scholarly, sympathetic, and conscientious 
manner. ' ' 



By Henry Lawson. With photogravure por- 
trait and vignette title. Crown 8vo., cloth 
gilt, gilt top, 5s. {post free 5s. 5d.). 

The Academy: "These ballads (for such they mostly are) 
abound in spirit and manhood, in the colour and smell of Aus- 
tralian They deserve the popularity -n-hich they have won 
in Australia, and which, we trust, this edition will now give them 
in England. ' ' 

The Speaker: "There are poems in 'In the Days When the 
"World was Wide' which are of a higher mood that any yet 
heard in distinctively Australian poetrj-. " 

Literary World: "Not a few of the pieces have made us 
feel discontented with our sober surroundings, and desirous of 
seeing new birds, now landscapes, new stars; for at times the 
blood tingles because of Mr. Lawson 's galloping rhymes." 
- Newcastle Weekly Chronicle: "Swinging, rhythmic 
verse. ' ' 

Sydney Morning Herald: "The verses have natural vigour, 
the writer has a rough, true faculty of characterisation, and 
the book is racy of the soil from cover to cover. . . . The 
wTiter of these' lines looks at things as they are. He pictures 
the country in drought and rain, the life of the bush, the types 
that are bred there, the words they say, and the thoughts they 
think. The highest praise that can be given these pictures is 
to recognise their fidelity. ' ' 

Ne-\v Zealand Mail: "This is emphatically a book to buy, 
to read, and to re-read with ever-recurring pleasure. ' ' 

Sydney Bulletin: "How graphic he is, how natural, how 
true, how strong. ' ' 


By Sarah P. McL. Greene, author of "Flood- 
Tide," "Vesty of the Basins," &c. Crown 
8vo., cloth gilt, with portrait, 3s. 6d. {post 
free 4s.). 

Daily Telegraph: "It is brimful of actuality set with deli- 
cate embroidery of imagination and of humour. It is perNraded 
y>y boys prankish, irresistible, genuine." 

The Age: "The studies of New England life and character 
presented to us in 'Winslow Plain' are fresh, vigorous, and 
original. ' ' 



By Henry Lawson. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
(post free 4s.). 

Also in two imrts, entitled "When I Was King," and "The 
Elder Son." See page 14. 

Spectator (London) : "A good deal of humour, a great deal 
of spirit, and a robust philosophy are the main characteristics 
of these Australian poets. Because they write of a world they 
know, and of feelings they have themselves shared in, they are 
far nearer the heart of poetry than the most accomplished de- 
votees of a literary tradition. ' ' 

Sydney Morning Herald: "He is known wherever the 
English language is spoken; he is the very god of the idolatry 
of Australian buslimen ; ... he has written more and is 
better known than any other Australian of his age. . . . 
There is a musical lilt about his verses which makes these dwell 
in the memory, and there is in them also a revelation of truth 
and strength. . . . 'When I was King' contains work of 
which many a craftsman in words might well be proud . . . 
lines that Walt Whitman — ^a master of rhythm when he liked, 
and a worshipper of it always — would have been proud to claim 
as his own. ' ' 

Brisbane Daily Mail: "The present volume is new and yet 
old — there is the same vigorous speech, ringing phrase, swinging 
rhythm, and big human heart pulsing through these poems as 
in his other works. There is, too, a freshness, a dramatic 
power, and an intensity of expression which shows Mr. Lawson 
at his best. ' ' 

Daily Telegraph: "Not only is this fine, rousing invocation 
and good poetry; not only does it display Mr. Lawson on the 
slogan-note he raises so clearly and holds so well; it renders no 
more than due credit to the indomitable people of rural Aus- 
tralia, whose lot . . . exhales the hope and trust in country 
without which there is no real patriotism. ' ' 

Brisbane Observer: "Henry Lawson is among the few quot- 
able Australian writers of verse. There is about his work a 
[)icturcsqueness and a flavour so typically Australian as to make 
it easily understood and specially acceptable." 


By Sarah P. McL. Greene, author of "Winslow 
Plain," "Flood-Tide," &c. Crown 8vo., 
cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. {post free 4s.). 



By Henry Lawson. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 

3s. 6d. (post free 4s.). 
For cheaper edition see Commomvealth Series, page Id. 

Francis Thompson, in The Daily Chronicle: "He is a 
writer of strong and ringing ballad verse, who gets his blows 
straight in, and at his best makes them all tell. He can vignette 
the life he knows in a few touches, and in this book shows an 
increased power of selection." 

New York Evening Journal: "Such pride as a man feels 
when he has true greatness as his guest, this newspaper feels 
in introducing to a million readers a man of ability hitherto 
unknown to them. Henry Lawson is his name. ' ' 

Academy : ' ' Mr. Lawson 's work should be well known to our 
readers, for we have urged them often enough to make acquaint- 
ance with it. He has the gift of movement, and he rarely offers 
a loose rhyme. Technically, short of anxious lapidary work, 
these verses are excellent. He varies sentiment and humour very 
agreeably. ' ' 

The Book Lover: "Any book of Lawson 's should be bought 
and treasured by all who care for the real beginnings of Aus- 
tralian literature. As a matter of fact, he is the one Australian 
literary product, in any distinctive sense. ' ' 

The Bulletin: "He is so very human that one's humanity 
cannot but welcome him. ... To the perpetuation of his 
value and fame, many pieces in * Verses : Popular and Humorous ' 
will contribute. 


By Henry Lawson. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 

3s. 6d. (post free 4s.). 
For cheaper edition see Commonwealth Series, page 14. 

The Athex^um (London): "This is a long way the best 
work Mr. Lawson has yet given us. These stories are so good 
that (from the literary point of view, of course) one hopes 
they are not autobiographical. As autobiography they would 
be good; as pure fiction they are more of an attainment." 

The Academy : " It is this rare convincing tone of this 
Australian writer that gives him a great value. The most 
casual 'newspapery' and apparently artless art of this Aus- 
tralian writer carries with it a truer, finer, more delicate com- 
mentary on life than all the idealistic works of any of our 
genteel school of writers." 



By Henry Lawson. With eight illustrations and 
vignette title, by F. P. Mahony. Crown 8vo., 
cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. {post free 4s.). 

For cheaper edition see Commonwealth Series, page Id. 

The Academy: "A book of houest, direct, .sympa/thetic, 
humorous Avriting about Australia from within is worth a librarj' 
of travellers' tales. . . . The result is a real book — a book 
in a hundred. His language is terse, supple, and richly 
idiomatic. He can tell a yarn with the best." 

The Scotsman: "There is no lack of dramatic imagination 
in the construction of the tales; and the best of them contrive 
to construct a strong sensational situation in a couple of pages. 
But the chief charm and value of the book is its fidelity to the 
rough character of the scenes from which it is drawn. ' ' 

Literature: "A book which Mrs. Campbell Praed assured 
me made her feel that all she had written of bush life was pale 
and ineffective. ' ' 

The Spectator: "It is strange that one we would venture 
to call the greatest Australian writer should be practically un- 
known in England. Mr. Lawson is a less experienced writer 
than Mr. Kipling, and more unequal, but there are two or three 
sketches in this volume which for vigour and truth can hold 
their own with even so great a rival. Both men have somehow 
gained that power of concentration which by a few strong strokes 
can set place and people before you with amazing force." 

The Times: "A collection of short and vigorous studies and 
stories of Australian life and character. A little in Bret Harte 's 
manner, crossed, perhaps, with that of Guy de Maupassant. ' ' 

British Weekly: "Many of Mr. Lawson 's tales photograph 
life at the diggings or in the bush with an incisive and remorse- 
less reality that grips the imagination. He silhouettes a swag- 
man in a couple of pages, and the man is there, alive." 


By Sarah P. McL. Greene, author of ''Vesty of 
the Basins," "Winslow Plain," &e. Cloth 
gilt, 3s. 6d. {'post free is.). 

The Times (Minneapolis): "For gentle humour that steals 
away all the cares and worries of living, I can commend this 
book. ' ' 



By Henry Lawson. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 

3s. 6d. {post free is.). 
For cheaper edition see CommonweaWi Scries, page 14. 

Daily Chronicle: "Will well sustain the reputation its 
author has already won as the best writer of Australian short 
stories and sketches the literary world knows." 

Pall Mall Gazette: "The volume now received will do 
much to enhance the author's reputation. There is all the 
quiet irresistible humour of Dickens in the description of 'The 
Darling River,' and the creator of 'Truthful James' never did 
anything better in the way of character sketches than Steelmau 
and Mitchell. ' ' 

Glasgow Herald : ' ' ^Ir. Lawson must now be regarded as 

facile princeps in the production of the short tale. Some of 

these brief and even slight sketches are veritable gems that 

would be spoiled by an added word, and without a word that 

-can be looked i;pon as superfluous." 

Sydney Morning Herald: "It is not too much to say for 
these sketches that they show an acquaintance with bush life 
and an insight into the class of people which is to be met with 
in this life that are hardly equalled in Australia. ... In a 
few words he can paint for you the landscape of his pictures 
or the innermost recesses of his bushman 's soul. ' ' 

Melbourne Punch: "Often the little stories are wedges cut 
clean out of life, and presented with artistic truth and vivid 
colour. ' ' 


Three volumes of verse and three of prose sketches, 
all uniformly bound in green cloth, with gilt 
titles, enclosed in a handsome cloth-covered 
case of same colour, with hinged lid. 25s. per 


Verse : In the Days when the World was Wide. 
When I was King, and other Veraes. 
Vei"ses, Popular and Humorous. 

Prose : W^hile the Billy Boils. 

On the Track and Over the Sliprails. 
Joe Wilson and His Mates, 



Crown 8vo., picture cover, Is. each (postage 3d.). 

The Old Bush Songs. Edited hy A. B. Paterson 

When I was King : New Verses. By Henry Lawson 

The Elder Son: New Verses. By Henry Lawson 

Joe Wilson : Stories. By Henry Lawson 

Joe Wilson's Mates: Stories. By Henry Lawson 

On the Track : Stories. By Henry Lawson 

Over the Sliprails : Stories. By Henry Lawson 

Popular Verses. By Henry Lawson 

Humorous Verses. By Henry Lawson 

While the Billy Boils: Stories. — First Series. 

By Henry Lawson 

While the Billy Boils : Stories. — Second Series 

By Henry Lawson 
My Chinee Cook, and other Humorous Verses. 

By Brunt on Stephens 

History of Australasia: From the Earliest Times 
TO THE Inauguration of the Commonwealth. 

By A. W. Jose 
History of Australian Bushranging. 

By CJwrles White 

Part I.— The Early Days. 
Part II.— 1850 to 1862. 
Part III.— 1863 to 1869. 
Part IV.— 1869 to 1878. 

*^* Far press notices of these boolxis see the cloth-hound editions 
on pages 7, 10, 11, 12, 13, 15, 16, and 23 oj this catalogue, 



Collected and edited by A. B. Paterson, author 
of "The Man from Snowy River," "Rio 
Grande's Last Race," &c. Fifth thousand. 
CrowTi 8vo., cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. {post free 
2s. 9d.). 
For cheaper edition see Commonwealth Series, page 14. 

Daily Telegraph: "Eude and rugged these old bush songs 
are, but they carry in their vigorous lines the very impress of 
their origin and of their genuineness. . . . Mr. Paterson 
has done his work like an artist. ' ' 


Australian Fairy Tales. 

By J. M. Whitpeld. Second thousand. With 32 
illustrations by G. W. Lambert. Cro^^^l 8vo., 
cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. {post free 3s.). 

Sydney Morning Herald: "It is frankly written for the 
young folks, and the youngster will find a delight in Miss Whit- 
f eld's marvellous company." 

Daily Telegraph : " It is pleasant to see author and artist 
working together in such complete harmony. "We have had so- 
called 'Australian' fairy tales before, but the sprites and gnomes 
and mermaids have been merely stray visitors from English 
shores, old acquaintances of an old-world childhood, dressed to 
suit alien surroundings. Miss Whitf eld's fairies are native to 
the soil. ' ' 



By Henry Gullett, President of the Shakespeare 
Society of New South AVales. Demy 8vo., 
2s. 6d. {post free 2s. 8d.). 


By E. R. Holme, B.A., Lecturer in English. 
Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. {post free 
2s. 9d.). 



By Sir John Quick and R. R. Garran, C.M.G. 
Royal 8vo., cloth gilt, 21s. 

The Times: "The Annotated Constitution of the Australian 
Commonwealth is a monument of inrliistry. . . . Dr. Quick 
and Mr. Garran have collected with patience and enthusiasm 
every sort of information, legal and historical, which can throw 
light on the new measure. The book has evidently been a labour 
of love. ' ' 

The Scotsman: "Students of constitutional law owe a 
welcome, and that in a scarcely less degree than lavryers do who 
are likely to have to interpret the laws of the Australian Consti- 
tution, to this learned and exhaustive commentary 

The book is an admirable working text-book of the Constitu- 
tion. ' ' 

Daily Chronicle: "Here is the new Constitution set out and 
explained, word by word — how each phrase was formulated, where 
they all came from, why they were put in, the probable diffi- 
culties of interpreting or administering each clause, with such 
help as can be given by considering similar difficulties in other 
Constitutions; eveiy point, in fine, in which lawyers' skill or 
the zeal of enthusiasts can discern the elements of interest." 

Glasgow Herald: "Will at once take rank as a standai'd 
authority, to be consulted, not only by students of constitutional 
history and political science, but also by all those who, in the 
active fields of law, politics, or commerce, have a practical in- 
terest in the working of the new federal institutions of Aus- 
tralia. ' ' 


By Charles White. In two vols. Crown 8vo., 
cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. each {postage 6d. each). 
See also Commonwealth Series, page 14. 
Year Book of Australia : ' ' The bushrangers have long since 
left the stage of Australian history, but their evil deeds live 
after them, and are likely to do so for many years to come. 
Having collected all the published details relating to the career 
of the Tasmanian as well as the Australian gangs, Mr. White 
has reduced them to a very readable narrative, which may fairly 
be termed a history. In this shape it forms a valuable contri- 
bution to the general history of the country, especially as a 
picture of social life in the past." 

Queenslander : ' ' Mr. White has supplied material enough 
for twenty such novels as ' Robbery Under Arms. ' ' ' 



By J. H. Hammond, B.A., LL.B., and C. G. W. 

Davidson, B.A., LL.B., Barristers-at-Law. 

Demy 8vo., cloth gilt, 25s. (i^ost free 

25s. lOd.). 
Sydney Morning Herald: " ... a valuable contribu- 
tion to legal literature. . . . The authors have incorporated 
the various Statutes in force in the State, annotating them with 
care, precision, and judgment. The notes and references have 
relation, not only to decisions in this and the other States of 
the Commonwealth, but also to English decisions under Statutes 
held to be in force in New South Wales. . . . The value of 
the work, which bears evidence of close and careful research, is 
enhanced by the fact that hitherto there has been no text-book 
which completely embraced the subject." 

Daily Telegraph: "It must be said that the joint authors 
have done thsir work in an able and thorough way, the 560 
pages which the book contains being replete with matters of 
moment to those desirous of ascertaining the state of the law 
on rather a complicated subject. . . . The whole of the 
local law of landlord and tenant is presented in a concise form 
to the i^rof ession and the general public. ' ' 


By M. M. D'Arcy Irvine, B.A., Solicitor of the 
Supreme Court. Demy 8vo., cloth gilt, 42s. 
{post free 43s.). 

The Sydney Morning Herald: "We have here a complete 
review of the direct taxation scheme of the State for the last 
ten years; an authoritative review which gives the law itself 
and its interpretation. . . . Mr. D 'Arcy Irvine iloes not 
inflict upon us the long descriptions of the road to a decision 
which some judges find it necessary or expedient to make. He 
gives us the decision, the one important matter, and little 

Daily Telegraph : ' ' The author has done his work in a most 
thorough way, and has produced what should be a valuable con- 
tribution to local legal literature. Moreover, the subject is 
dealt with in such a perspicuous style, that a layman, by perusal 
of it, should have no difiSculty in ascertaining exactly where he 
stands mth regard to the Acts bearing upon this form of taxa- 
tion. " 



A synopsis of offences punishable by indictment and on 
sumniarv conviction, definitions of crimes, meanings of 
legal phrases, hint . on evidence, procedure, police duties, 

Compiled by Daniel Stephen, Senior-Sergeant of 
Police. Second edition, revised in accordance 
with State and Federal Enactments to the end 
of 1905, and enlarged by the inclusion of a 
concise summary of Commercial Law. Crown 
8vo., cloth gilt, 6s. (post free 6s. 6d.). 

Sydney Morning Herald: "Justices of the peace ami others 
concerned in the administration of the law will find the value 
of this admirably-arranged work. . . . "We had nothing l3ut 
praise for the first edition, and the second edition is better than 
the first. ' ' 

Town and Country Journal: "The author has put together 
a vast amount of useful and generally practical information 
likely to be interesting, as well as valuable, to justices of the 
peace, policemen, and all others concerned in the administration 
of the law." 

Sydney Mah.: "A well got up handbook that should prove 
of decided value to a large section of the community. . . . 
Primarily intended for justices of the peace and policemen, it 
is so handily arranged, so concise, and so comprehensive, that 
it should appeal to everyone who wants to know just how he 
stands in regard to the law of the land." 

Sydney Wool and Stock Journaj.: "The book practically 
makes every man his own lawyer, and enables him to see at a 
glance what the law is upon any given point, and will save 
more than its cost at the first consultation." 

Sydney Stock and Station Journal: "To speak of a work 
of this kind as being interesting would doubtless cause surprise; 
but it is most certainly a very interesting work. We strongly 
recommend it. ' ' 


Compiled for the 'Vi?omen's Mlcsionary Association 

Ninth edition, enlarged, completing the 75th 
thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth, Is. {post free 
Is. 3d.). 



By W. Gibbons Cox, C.E. With 81 illiLstrations 
and a coloured map of Australia. Crown 8vo., 
cloth gilt, Gs. (post free 6s. 6d.). 

The Australasian: "The work under notice, which has 
special reference to the utilisation of artesian and sub-artesian 
water, is the most valuable contribution to the literature on 
the subjects dealt with that has yet appeared in Australia." 

Sydney Morning Herald : ' ' The chief value of the book will 
be, perhaps, for the individual irrigationist. The author goes 
into detail on most phases of small schemes. . . . He takes 
various crops and fruit trees separately, and gives a lot of 
sound information on the question. The sinking of wells, the 
erection of reservoirs, ditches, checks, and grading are all con- 
sidered. " 

Sydney Daily Telegraph: "A valuable addition to Austra- 
lian agricultural literature. . . . The major portion of the 
'book is concerned with irrigation, both by surface and subter- 
ranean waters, and each subject is carefully elaborated with the 
aid of numerous illustrations. . . . The book will, no doubt, 
materially assist the inland farmer in settling many vexed prob- 
lems. ' ' 

Sydney Mail : ' ' Mr. Cox discusses extensively the artesian 
water supply of Australia, and he avoids as much as possible 
technicalities in his descriptive matter. This makes the reading 
of his work both interesting and pleasurable, to say nothing of 
the educational value of it. ... I can thoroughly recom- 
mend Mr. Cox's book." 

Melbourne Age: "He has gone thoroughly into his subject 
from the strictly utilitarian viewpoint, and his carefully gleaned 
facts and figures, as well as his manifold instructions as to the 
correct way to irrigate and drain, should be of substantial 
assistance to the farmer. . . . Altogether the volume covers 
the subject in a markedly adequate fashion." 

Sydney Wool and Stock Journal : ' ' Altogether it is by far 
the most comprehensive work on this important subject that has 
yet come under our notice, and should be in the hands of all 
pastoralists who desire during seasons of plenty to prepare for 
the times of adversity, which, unfortunately, are bound to recur 
sooner or later. ' ' 

Farmer and Settler: "Avoiding technicalities, he sets out, 
in a manner which the ordinary reader can easily follow, the 
sources from which water may be drawn, how to properly apply 
it to the different classes of soil, with due regard to climate and 
the amount of land to be irrigated, and the proper construction 
of necessary appliances." 



An Analytical Key to the Flowering Plants (except Grasses 
and Rushes) and Ferns of the State, set out in an original 
method, with an up-to-date list of native and introduced 

By W. A. Dixon, F.I.C, F.C.S. With Glossary 
and 49 diagrams. Foolscap 8vo., cloth gilt, 
6s. {post free 6s. 5d.). 

DxMLY Telegraph (Sydney): "The author has succeeded in 
bringing his subject within the comprehension of the ordinary 
observer. In a concise introductory note, Mr. Dixon points 
out the difficulty of identifying plants by the use of scientific 
treatises, and substitutes a system based on the use of more 
easily observed characters. ' ' 

Sydney Moening Herald: "The book is interesting as well 
as ingenious. It is a valuable contribution to the botanic litera- 
ture of Australia. ' ' 

Town and Country Journal: "The immense amount of 
careful research necessary to produce such a work can hardly 
be over-estimated, and Mr. Dixon has arranged it in such a form 
as to be easily accessible to all seeking information on the sub- 
ject to which it is devoted. A complete index also assists in 
rendering reference easy." 


By Joseph Campbell, M.A., F.G.S., M.I.M.E. 
Fourth edition, revised and enlarged (com- 
pleting the ninth thousand). With illustra- 
tions. Cloth, round corners, 3s. 6d {post 
free 3s. Del.). 

Ballarat Star: "This is an excellent little work, and should 
be in the hands of every scientific and practical miner. ' ' 

Bendigo Evening Mail : ' ' Should be in every prospector 's 
kit. It enables any intelligent man to ascertain for himself 
whether any mineral he may discover has a commercial value." 

BuNDABERG Star: "A handy and useful book for miners and 
all interested in the mining industry. ' ' 

Newcastle Morning Herald : ' ' The book is a thoroughly 
practical one. ' ' 

Wyalong Star : ' ' Now it will be possible for miners and 
prospectors to test any mineral which has a commercial value." 



A popular introduction to the study of Australian Geology 

By Rev. J. Milne Currax, late Lecturer in 
Chemistry and Geology, Teehnioal College, 
Sydney. Prescribed by the Department of 
Public Instruction, N.S.W., for First and 
Second Class Teachers' Examinations. Sec- 
ond edition. With a Glossary of Scientific 
Terms, a Reference List of commonly-occur- 
ring Fossils, 2 coloured maps, and 83 illus- 
trations. CroAvn 8vo., cloth gilt, 6s. {post 
free 6s. 6d.). 

Xatltie: "This is, strictly speakiug, au elementary manual 
of geology. The general plan of the work is good; the book 
IS well printed and illustrated with maps, photographic pictures 
of rock structure and scenery, and figures of fossils and roek 
sections. ' ' 

Saturday Eevieav: "His style is animated and inspiring, or 
clear and precise, as occasion demands. The people of Sydn'?y 
are to be congratulated on the existence of such a guide to their 
beautiful country." :v| 

Sydxey Morning Herald : ' ' Though the book deserves to be 
made a University text, it will have another distinction, perhaps 
more agreeable to the author — that of being a means by which 
the intelligence of many a reader will be directed to that science 
of the earth, the materials and the monuments of which are 
beneath our feet continually." 

Daily Telegraph: "Mr. Curran more than justifies his claim 
to an indejjendent method of presenting his gathered stores of 
knowledge. The style, simple, clear, and enticing, leaves nothing 
to be desired; and even a child's eye, caught in some trick of 
familiar, if involuntary, association by pictures, must pause in 
the responsive desire to know all about it. ' ' 

Town and Country Journal: "There has always been a 
painful sense of distance in the study of geology as taught in 
our schools. ... To get a real grip of the science, it is 
absolutely necessary that the student should see something for 
himself, and the author endeavours to bring the science home 
to Australian students by basing this popular introduction to 
the study of it on the material literally at his doors. ' ' 

The Argus : "Asa handbook for schools in which it is 
desired to interest the advanced classes in the study of nature, 
the volume has great value." 



A Handbook to the History of Greater Britain. 

By Arthur W. Jose, author of " A Short History 
of Australasia." Prescribed by the Depart- 
ment of Public Instruction, N.S.W., for First 
and Second Class Teachers' Certificate Exami- 
nations. Second edition. With 14 maps. 
'Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 4s. 6d. {post free 

Morning Post: "This book is published in Sydney, but it 
deserves to be circulated throughout the United Kingdom. The 
picture of the fashion in which British enterprise made its 
way from settlement to settlement has never been drawn more 
vividly than in these pages. Mr. Jose's style is crisp and 
pleasant, now and then even rising to eloquence on his grand 
theme. His book deserves wide popularity, and it has the rare 
merit of being so written as to be attractive alike to the young 
student and to the mature man of letters." 

Literature: "He has studied thoroughly, and writes vigor- 
ously. . . . Admirably done. . . . We conmiend it to 
Britons the world over." 

Saturday Eeview: "He writes Imperially; he also often 
writes sympathetically. . . . We cannot close Mr. Jose's 
creditable account of our misdoings without a glow of national 
pride. ' ' 

Yorkshire Post: "A brighter short history we do not know, 
and this book deserves, for the matter and the manner of it, 
to be as well known as Mr. McCarthy's 'History of Our Own 
Times.' " 

The Scotsman : ' ' This admirable work is a solid octavo of 
more than 400 pages. It is a thoughtful, well-written, and 
well-arranged history. There are 14 excellent maps to illus- 
trate the text." 

The Spectator: "He certainly possesses the faculty of pre- 
senting a clear summary, and always appears to hold the scales 
fairly. . . . We can heartily commend both the subject and 
style of this able and most admirably arranged history of the 
British Empire. ' ' 

Glasgow Herald: "An excellent specimen of the vigorous 
work produced by the School of History at Oxford." 

London: John Murray. 


From the Earliest Tlnias to the Inauguration of the 

By Arthur W. Jose, author of "The Growth of 
the Empire." The chapter on Federation 
revised by R. R. Garran, C.M.G. Prescribed 
by the Department of Public Instruction, 
N.S.W., for Second and Third Class Teachers' 
Certificate Examinations. Second edition, 
revised and enlarged, completing the twelfth 
thousand. AVith 6 maps and 64 portraits and 
illustrations. Crown 8vo., cloth, Is. 6d. ; 
paper cover, Is. {postage 4d.). 

Daily Telegraph : ' ' There was ample room for a cleverly 
condensed, clear, and yet thoroughly live account of these 
colonies such as Mr. Jose now presents us with. ' ' 

Sydney Morning Herald : ' ' Possibly we have not yet reached 
the distance in point of time from the events here recorded to 
permit the writing of a real history of Australasia ; but Mr. 
Jose has done good work in the accumulation and orderly 
arrangement of details, and the intelligent reader will derive 
much profit from this little book." 

The Book Lover : ' ' The ignorance of the average Australian 
youth alx)ut the brief history of his native land is often deplor- 
able. . . . 'A Short History of Australasia,' by Arthur W. 
Jose, just provides the thing wanted. Mr. .Jose's previous his- 
torical work was most favourably received in England, and this 
story of our land is capitally done. It is not too long, and it 
is brightly written. Its value is considerably enhanced by the 
useful maps and interesting illustrations." 

Victorian Education Gazette: "The language is graphic 
and simple, and there is much evidence of careful work and 
acquaintance with original documents, which give the reader 
confidence in the accuracy of the details. The low jjrice of 
the book leaves young Australia no excuse for remaining in 
ignorance of the history of their native land. ' ' 

ToAVN and Country Journal: "The language is graphic and 
simple, and he has maintained the unity and continuity of 
the story of events, despite the necessity of following the sub- 
ject along the seven branches corresponding with the seven 
separate colonies. ' ' 



Demy 8vo., linen, 2s. 6d. ; paper cover, Is. (postage 
8d.) [Piiblished annually, in May. 



Demy 8vo., paper cover, Is. (post free Is. 3d.). 

[PuhUnhed annually, in Augu^st, and dated the year 
following tliat in which it is issued. 


Arranged for the use of students by A. Li\ter- 
siDGE, M.A., LL.D., F.R.S., Professor of 
Chemistry in the University of Sydney. 
Second edition, Royal 8vo., cloth gilt, 4s. 6d. 
(post free 4s. 9d.). 

Chemical News : ' ' Altogether the book is a useful, thoroughly 
workable text-book, and one that is likely to find considerable 
favour with teachers of chemistry. There is a complete index, 
and the price is very reasonable. ' ' 



By H. S. Carslaw, M.A., D.Sc, F.R.S.E., Pro- 
fessor of Mathematics in the University of 
Sydney. Demy 8vo., cloth gilt, 5s. (post free 
5s. 3d.). 

The Times : ' ' Concise lucidity is the key-note of the book. 
. . . . Professor Carslaw may be congratulated upon hav- 
ing produced an admirable book, which should be useful to 
young engineers and science students, both during and after 
their college courses." 


By S. H. Barraclough, B.E., M.M.E., Assoc. M. 
Inst. C.E. Demy 8vo., cloth, Is. (post free 
Is. Id.). Logarithms, &c., published separ- 
ately, price 6d. (post free 7d.). 



With Design. 

By J. E. Branch, Superintendent of Drawing, 
Department of Public Instruction. Pre- 
scribed b}' the Department of Public Instruc- 
tion, N.S.W., for Teachers' Examinations. 
^\^ith 19 coloured and 5 other plates. Demy 
4to., decorated cloth, 7s. 6d. (post free 
8s. 3d.). 


By Percival R. Cole, ]\I.A., Frazer Scholar in 
IModern History, University ^Medallist in 
Logic and Mental Philosophy, late Lecturer 
in the Training College, Fort-street, Sydney. 
Second edition, revised and enlarged. Cro-uoi 
8vo., cloth, 2s. (post free 2s. 3d.). Also in 
two parts : — Part I. — Classes I. and II. ; Part 
II. — Classes III., IV., and V. ; cloth. Is. each 
{post free Is. 2d. each). 

N.S.W. Educational Gazette: "In our issue of March, 1905, 
■we announced with approval the appearance of the first edition 
of this useful and practical -work, and anticipated a wide appre- 
ciation on the part of our teachers. The issue of a new edition 
within seven months of the original publication amply verifies 
this prediction. . . . "We note the addition of supplementary 
lessons on Simple Proverbs, Vote by Ballot, the State Govern^ 
ment of New South Wales, and the Federal Government of 
Australia. There can be no doubt that a book which so closely 
interprets the spirit of the New Syllabus will find a place in 
every Public School in this State." 


Containing the Alphabets most useful in Mapping, 
Exercise Headings, &c., with practical appli- 
cations, Easy Scrolls, Flourishes, Borders, 
Corners, Rulings, &c. New edition, re\'ised 
and enlarged, cloth limp, 6d. {post free 7d.). 



By G. E. Bench, B.A. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. 
{post free 2s. lOd.). 


Set at First and Second Class Teachers' Examina- 
tions from 1894 to 1901 (inclusive), by W. 
L. Atkins, B.A. Crown 8vo., cloth, 2s. 6d. 


Set at First, Second, and Third Class Teachers' 
Examinations from 1894 to 1901 (inclnsive), 
by J. M. Taylor, M.A., LL.B. Crown 8vo., 
cloth, 2s. 6d. 



By C. Godfrey, M.A., and A. W. Siddons, M.A. 
Prescribed by the Department of Public In- 
struction, N.S.W., for First, Second, and 
Third Class Teachers' Examinations. Com- 
plete edition (Books I.-IV.), crown 8vo., cloth 
gilt, 3s. 6d. {jjost free 4s.). Vol. I. (Books I. 
and II.), 2s. Vol. II. (Books III. and IV.), 
2s. {postage 3d.). Answers in separate vol- 
ume, price 4d. {post free 5d.). Key, 6s. 
{jDOst free 6s. 3d.). 



By J. ]\I. Taylor, M.A., LL.B. With Introduc- 
tory Notes on the Nature of Decimals, and con- 
tracted methods for the Multiplication and 
Division of Decimals. Crown 8vo., 6d. {post 
free 7d.). Answers, 6d, 



By J. M. Taylor, M.A., LL.B. Prescribed by the 

Department of Public Instruction, N.S.W., 
for Third Class and Pupil Teachers' Certifi- 
cate Examinations. New edition, revised. 
With 37 illustrations and 6 folding maps. 
Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 
3s. lOd.). 
Sydney Morning Herald: "Something more than a school 
book ; it is an approach to an ideal geography. ' ' 

Eevieav of Reviews: "It makes a very attractive handbook. 
Its geography is up-to-date; it is not overburdened with details, 
and it is richly illustrated with geological diagrams and photo- 
graphs of scenery reproduced with happy skill. ' ' 


Part I. — For Infant and Junior Classes. Second 
edition, with 43 illustration.^. Crown 8vo., 
cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. ; paper cover, 2s. 6d. {post- 
age id. ) . 

N.S.W. Educational Gazette: "Mr. Wiley has wisely 
adopted the plan of utilising the services of specialists. The 
eeries is remarkably complete, and includes almost everything 
with which the little learners ought to be made familiar. 
Throughout the whole series the lessons have been selected with 
judgment and with a due appreciation of the capacity of the 
pupils for whose use they are intended." 


Part II. — For advanced classes. Second edition, 
with 113 illustrations. Crown 8vo., cloth 
gilt, 3s. 6d. ; paper cover, 2s. 6d. {postage 

Victorian Education Gazette: "Mr. Wiley and his col- 
leagues have provided a storehouse of useful information on 
a great number of topics that can be taken up in any Australian 
school. ' ' 

N.S.W. Educational Gazette: "The Australian Object 
Lesson Book is evidently the result of infinite patience and deep 
research on the part of its compiler, who is also to be commended 
for the admirable arrangement of his matter. ' ' 




By James Conway, Headmaster at Cleveland- 
street Superior Public School, Sydney. Pre- 
scribed by the Department of Public Instruc- 
tion, N.S.W., for First and Second Class 
Teachers' Certificate Examinations, 1907. 
New edition, revised and enlarged. Crown 
8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. {post free 3s. lOd.). 



By James Conway. Prescribed by the Depart- 
ment of Public Instruction, N.S.W., for Third 
Class Teachers' Examinations, 1907. New 
edition, revised and enlarged. Crown 8vo., 
cloth, Is. 6d. (post free Is. 9d.). 

N.S.W. Educational Gazette: "The abridgmeut is very 
well done. One recognises the hand of a man who has had 
long experience of the difficulties of this subject." 


By Mrs. S. C. Boyd. Second edition, revised and 
enlarged, containing granunatical summaries, 
exercises, a full treatise on pronunciation, 
French-English and English-French Vocabu- 
lary, and other matter for the use of the 
teacher or of a student without a master. 
Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. {post free 
3s. lOd. ) . Abridged edition for pupils. Pre- 
scribed for Applicant Pupil Teachers' Exami- 
nation, 1907. Crown 8vo., cloth. Is. 6d. 
{post free Is. 8d.). 

The London Spectator: "A most excellent and practical 
little volume, evidently the work of a trained teacher. It com- 
bines admirably and in an entertaining form the advantages of 
the conversational with those of the grammatical method of 
learning a language." 



Held by the N.S.W. Department of Public In- 
struction for Teachers and Pupil Teacners in 
all grades. By G. T. Cotterill, Headmaster 
at Paddington Superior Public School. Part 
I.— The Papers set in 1898, 1899, and 1900, 
and answers thereto. Crown 8vo., cloth, 2s. 
(post free 2s. 2d.). Part II. — The Papers 
set in 1901, and answers thereto. Crowai 
8vo., sewn, Is. {post free Is. Id.). 
N.S.W. Educational Gazette: "We would earnestly urge 
upon teachers and pupil teachers intending to sit for examina- 
tion the wisdom of mastering the principles so clearly enunciated 
in these valuable text -books. ' ' 



By PIuGO Alpen, Superintendent of Music, De- 
partment of Public Instruction, New South 
Wales. 8vo., paper cover, Is. {post free 
Is. 2d.). 


By S. ]\IcBuRNEY, Mus. Doc, Fellow T.S.F. Col- 
lege. Containing graded Songs, Eounds and 
Exercises in Staff Notation, Tonic Sol-fa and 
Numerals, with JMusical Theory. Price 6d. 
each part; combined. Is. {postage Id. each 

No. 1. — For Junior Classes. 

No. 2. — For Senior Classes. 


By Mrs. Maybanke Anderson. All the songs 
are set to music, while to some of them appro- 
priate calisthenic exercises are given. Demy 
4to., picture cover, Is. {post free Is. Id.). 



Revised edition, with 8 maps and 19 illustrations. 
64 pages. 6d. (post free 7d.). 


Revised edition, with 18 relief and other maps, 
and 17 illustrations of transcontinental views, 
distribution of animals, &c. 88 pages. 6d. 
(post free 7d.). 


With 5 folding maps. 48 pages. 6d. (post free 



For Classes II. and III. Y/ith Diagrams. 2d. 
For Classes IV. and V. With Diagrams. 4d. 


Books I. and II. Price 6d. each. 


History of Australia and New Zealand for Catho- 
lic Schools, 117 pages. 4d. 

Pupil's Companion to the Australian Catholic 
First Reader, .32 pages. Id. 

Pupil's Companion to the Australian Catholic 
Second Reader, 64 pages. 2d. 

Pupil's Companion to the Australian Catholic 
Third Reader, 112 pages. 3d. 

Pupil's Companion to the Australian Catholic 
Fourth Reader, 160 pages. 4d. 



Grammar and Derivation Book, 64 pages. 2d. 

Test Exercises in Grammar for Third Class, First 
Year, 64 pages. 2d. Second Year, 64 pages. 2d. 

Table Book and Mental Arithmetic, 48 pages. Id. 

Chief Events and Dates in English History. Part 

I. From 55 B.C. to 1485 a.d., 50 pages. 2d. 

Chief Events and Dates in English History. Part 

II. From Henry VII. (1485) to Victoria (1900), 
64 pages. 2d. 

History op Australia, 80 pages. 4d. Illustrated. 

Geography. Part I. Australasia and Polynesia, 64 
pages. 2d. 

Geography. Part II. Europe, Asia, America, and 
Africa, 66 pages. 2d. 

Euclid. Book I. With Definitions, Postulates, 
Axioms, &c., 64 pages. 2d. 

Euclid. Book II. With Definitions and Exercises on 
Books I. and II., 32 pages. 2d. 

Euclid. Book III. With University "Junior" 
Papers, 1891-1897, 60 pages. 2d. 

Arithmetic and Practical Geometry — Exercises 
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Arithmetic — Exercises for Class III., 50 pages. 3d. 

Algebra. Part I., 64 pages. 4d. Answere, 4d. 

Algebra. Part II. To Quadratic Equations. Con- 
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Examination Papers to 1900, &c., 112 pages. 4d. 
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Approved by the Departments of Public Instruc- 
tion in New South Wales, Queensland, and 
Tasmania, by the Public Service Board of 
New South Wales, and by the Chief Inspector 
of Catholic Schools. In 10 carefully-graded 
numbers, and a book of Plain and Ornamental 
Lettering, Mapping, &c. (No. 11). Price 2d. 
each. Numerals are given in each number. 
A.C.B. Blotter (fits all sizes), Id. 


A selection of pages from the Australian Copy 
Book, arranged for use of Pupil Teachers. 
48 pages. Price 6d. 


Approved by the Department of Public IiLstruc- 
tion. In 12 carefully-graded numbers and 
a book for Pupil Teachers (No. 1-3). 2d. each. 

The letters are coBtinuonsly joined to each other, so that the 
pupil need not lift the pen from the beginning to the end 
of each word. The spaces between the letters are wide, each 
letter thus standing out boldly and distinctly by itself. The 
slope is gentle, but sufficient to prevent the pupil from acquiring 
a back hand. The curves are well rounded, checking the ten- 
dency to too great angularity. 


Approved by the N.S.W. Department of Public 
Instruction. In nine numl^ers. Id. each. 
No. 1, initiatory lines, curves, letters, figures; 
2 and 3, short letters, easy combinations, 
figures; 4, long letters, short words, figures; 
5, long letters, words, figures; 6, 7, and 8, 
capitals, words, figures; 9, short sentences, 


Los Angeles 

This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 

V^ pro 2 19TS 
■ 8 1978 





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